


On the Nature of Daylight

by aerlinniel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Moral Ambiguity, Mystery, No character bashing, Politics, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22941652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerlinniel/pseuds/aerlinniel
Summary: Five years after the war it is clear that there is something wrong with the Ministry. It is all there, hidden in the archives, and Hermione will do anything if it means unearthing the truth. Even if it means having to play a part in a game with rules everyone hides.(In which Hermione is made an offer she can’t refuse, finds herself entangled in a political web, and is pitted against old allies alongside what remains of the Death Eaters.)
Relationships: Antonin Dolohov/Hermione Granger, Background Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley (briefly mentioned/past), Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley, Theodore Nott/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 94
Kudos: 180





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _“If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”_
> 
> _(Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn)_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** This story has been in the works for a while, and the entire plot has been planned out. Updates will come either weekly or biweekly.
> 
>  **As a general warning:** The story will most likely see a change in rating as it progresses. It will never be explicit, but it will deal with some dark and disturbing themes. 'Grey and Gray' morality would be an apt way to describe it.
> 
> My thanks to InkwingsInc and Nautical Paramour—whose stories inspired me to start this one.
> 
>  **Update #1:** Text revised and edited as of 28/12/2020.

**Tintagel Castle, Cornwall.**

**September 1987.**

Hermione hid her hands within the large pockets of her coat as she walked across the wooden bridge. Seagulls rose up into the air as the wind picked up around her, crying as they flew away from the sharp cliffs of Tintagel island. Beneath her waves broke on the black slate-rock of the jagged coastline, swallowing the jagged rocks and sand which made up the thin strips of beach. Ahead of her, seemingly unaffected by the late September weather, her parents walked calmly; her mother holding a copy of Tennyson’s _Idylls of the King_ whilst her father pointed his camera towards their left. Barely visible atop the cliffs beyond them was the main body of the legendary castle; its medieval walls, gardens, and gates promising to bring to life the tales of knights she had read before traveling to Cornwall. Beneath it, a massive, cave-like chasm was slowly being submerged in the rising tide.

Sniffling, Hermione pushed the hood of her coat up further. The rain had been smart and waited patiently for her family to leave the hotel before beginning the intermittent downpour that had been falling on them all day.

“Look, Hermione, the castle!”

Hermione felt her breath leave her as she glanced up to the edge of the island, crowned by the beginnings of the crumbling gate of the castle’s courtyard. It was as beautiful as her mother had promised her, if in a worse state than she had imagined. “Why is it broken, mum?”

Her mother smiled sweetly. “It’s quite old, I’m afraid, dear.”

“Oh.” She scrunched up her nose. “Does anyone know how it used to look before?

Her mother shook her head. “Oh, no, I don’t think so—though there are always people investigating the site.”

It didn’t take them long to reach the top of the stairway. Slowly, taking care not to slip on the bare stone, they walked through what remained of the castle’s gateway. The path slithered across what little even ground was out in the open, branching into several different strands that snaked their way around the different ruined structures.

Her father, smiling brightly, stretched his left arm and hooked it around her mother’s. “Look, Hermione!” he exclaimed, pointing to his right.

Hermione turned to look at the remains of a set of walls. They weren’t too close to where they were, but a path on to the other end of the island cut right through them. Though they were in a state of decay they must have been tall and beautiful, once. Splendorous, just like stories said.

“They’re really quite impressive, aren’t they?” her mother said, walking on. “They must have once been quite a sight.”

It didn’t take Hermione long to notice that not all of the structures were in ruins, though it didn’t seem like her parents had seen it yet. Further beyond, in what must have been the far northern side of the island, a tall, leaning tower seemed to be in good shape. A group of five men stood close to it, far away from any of the other tourists.

Taking a few steps in their direction, Hermione skirted around a puddle and walked away from her parents in order to get a better view.

There were five in total, with four pointing something at the lone fifth man. Though she couldn’t make out their clothes properly, it was clear that they were outdated. Worse, they didn’t seem to be aware of the rain at all. It was so bad that it was obvious that fifth man, dark haired and tall, was completely soaked.

Hermione turned back around. “Mum, dad!” she called. “What are those people doing there, in front of that tower? It’s outside of the path!”

Her parents glanced questioningly in the direction of the tall, grey tower. Dropping his hold on the camera, her father let it hang from his neck. Squinting, he pushed up his muggy glasses.

“What tower, sweetie? There’s nothing there.”

Hermione glanced back. The tower and the group of people were prominently visible, if slightly close to the cliffs on the island’s other end. “That one,” she said, pointing towards it. “It’s the one that’s close to the cliffs.”

Her mother frowned. “There’s nothing there, sweetie-pie. What group of people are you talking about?”

A sudden gust of wind swept through the island. The seagulls flew further up in response, filling the area with their cries. Frowning, Hermione turned around again. The five men had disappeared.

“Hermione?” her mother called. She was smiling again. “Let’s continue walking. I’m sure we can find that tower you must have seen before further down the path—it must be around here somewhere.”

* * *

* * *

Cheers rang through the crowd as Ron kissed Lavender. Smiling, the blonde woman wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in closer, raising herself on the balls of her feet. Parvati Patil, close behind the bride, dabbed off a tear whilst Harry, standing opposite her, grinned. The cheers grew as the newlyweds broke apart and turned to face the crowd, taking each other’s hand before walking down the aisle. Ginny and Molly stood up from their seat and threw rice, smiling widely. Hermione clapped as the newlyweds broke apart and turned to face the crowd, taking each other’s hand as they walked down the aisle.

It had been a beautiful ceremony. The entrance had been carefully planned, with bright, colourful spells bursting brightly in the air as the hired string quartet played the meticulously selected music. Ron had been exultant, beaming in eager anticipation from where he had been waiting. Lavender had been radiant when she had appeared a full five minutes later in her dress; a long and floaty piece in satin and lace. Her hair, perfectly styled, falling over her collarbones in an elegant display which made the scars Greyback had given her all but invisible.

Hermione stood up and followed the other wedding guests to the ornate pavilion-like tents. A variety of food had been laid across the majority of the tables within, with flowers and candles decorating the remaining available surfaces.

A delicate arm wrapped itself around her own. “It was a beautiful ceremony, wasn’t it, Hermione?”

Hermione turned to look at Ginny. “It really was. Your mother and Lavender paid attention to everything.”

“They did, didn’t they?” Ginny grinned. “You weren’t there to see all of it, but with how that one Christmas went it was amazing to see them coordinate like they did.”

“I imagine Ron can’t wait for things to return to normal.”

“He still has the honeymoon to think of. After that, they’ll be moving into the house they bought just south from here.” Her eyes suddenly widened, and she abruptly withdrew her arm. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I need to catch Harry before he gives the best man’s speech. I forgot to—.”

“Don’t worry, Ginny. We can always talk later.”

The red-haired girl beamed and rushed towards her husband. Hermione brushed the straps of her beaded bag, still with her even after the war, and pushed on towards the crowd of guests.

She smiled as she neared Ron and Lavender. “Congratulations, it was a beautiful ceremony.”

Ron smiled back warmly. “Thanks, Hermione. It means a lot.”

“Thank you for coming today, Hermione,” Lavender said earnestly. “I know we never had the best of relationships in Hogwarts.”

“It’s really no problem,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m happy for you two.”

Lavender seemed to be about to say something when the string quartet began to play again. Barely waiting a moment, she swerved around. “Enough standing around. Ron, let’s dance!”

Ron groaned and looked at Hermione pleadingly. Before he could so much say a word, however, he found himself being pulled in the direction of the dancing floor.

Still smiling, Hermione glanced at the people around her. Most of her friends had dispersed through the crowd of guests. Only George, standing the edge of the dance floor, was alone.

It didn’t take long for the older male to approach her. “How have you been, Hermione?”

“I’ve been good. I’m working on another law we plan to present on House-elf and Wizard relations.” She met George’s eyes. His demeanour had changed drastically since the end of the war, though not for the better. “What about you? Ron told me he’d be joining you in the shop soon.”

“He will. Having someone to help will be welcome, it hasn’t been the same since Fred died.” He breathed in deeply. “How have your parents been, Hermione? Has anything new been found?”

Hermione shook her head. “They still don’t remember a thing about who they used to be; nothing seems to have had an effect. The Healers at St Mungo’s are stuck.”

“Nothing has helped at all?”

“The healers are stumped.” So was she, for that matter. Nothing had managed to change their state in the five years that had gone by since the war’s end.

Drawing in a breath, she glanced at the aurors standing at the edge of the tents. They had been posted especially for the wedding by the Ministry; security—as Kingsley had argued. Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror Office, was standing the closest to the dance floor. He was a veteran, and it showed in his tall and bulky form. Besides him was Mervyn Wynch—recognizable due to his prominent hooked nose and square face—and Cyril Meakin, both of which had joined the Auror task force in the year Voldemort had been in power. Off to a side, patrolling closer to the Burrow itself, were Roger Davies and Stephen Cornfoot.

Frowning, Hermione recalled a recent Daily Prophet headline. “Have you heard anything more on the sightings in the countryside?”

George’s expression soured instantly. “Nothing beyond what has been reported. It’s worrying that some Death Eaters are still at large.”

“I know Harry mentioned that the department has been working on it intensively. That burnt house…” Hermione bit her lip. “Ron was a part of the team investigating the event, right? It was all people in my department could talk about this week. That, and the werewolves in Scotland.”

George looked away pensively. “Lavender—you know how she has been staying at the Burrow lately—was quite worried about it.”

Hermione glanced at the golden-haired witch. Given the involvement of Greyback’s old pack it didn’t surprise her.

“They should have all been killed after the battle, not be treated to the Wizengamot’s full legal protection,” George said harshly. “Murderers, the lot of them. Had they been executed this would have never happened. Rookwood—.” He breathed in sharply. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I think I need some fresh air. Maybe a drink.”

“There’s no need to apologise, George.”

George smiled apologetically. “I’ll see you soon, hopefully—mum wants to organize a full family dinner once Ron’s back from his honeymoon. Do you think you’ll be able to make it?”

“I’d love to. Should I owl Molly about it?”

“There’s no need, she’ll tell you the date once it’s been organised.”

It was dark by the time the celebrations drew to a close. Bidding farewell to her friends, Hermione apparated directly into the small apartment she rented within Whitstable’s magical quarter. She breathed in with relief as crossed through the apartment’s wards. The complicated set of layers she had carefully constructed upon first moving in were exactly as they had been early in the morning, with nothing any different or out of place. 

Dropping herself on her living room’s single sofa, Hermione looked at the dark, cramped space. Walls lined with bookshelves; a chimney just big enough to allow for floo access; a lone coffee table, its space crowded with ever-growing piles of books…

She leant forwards. The majority were new acquisitions, though a few had been with her since Hogwarts. The first volumes of _Chadwick’s Charms_ sat at the bottom of the leftmost pile, with Lumus’ _Olde and Forgotten Betwitchments and Charms_ and a precariously balanced stack of parchment resting atop it. Besides them, a slightly out-of-date copy of the Daily Prophet crowned a similar-looking pile.

_DISASTROUS CAMPAIGN CONTINUES_

_Despite public pressure, the ongoing campaign headed by Fausta Thicknesse recently saw an increase in attention when Ricbert Fawley, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, publicly met with the widow of the late Minister for Magic Pius Thicknesse. Though Minister Shacklebolt has refused to comment on the issue, his aide, Dolores Umbridge, has called out and criticised Mrs Thicknesse for her use of propaganda, stating that…_

Hermione tore her eyes away from the newspaper and picked up the stack of notes, straightening them before setting them back down. She marched towards her room—a tiny thing at the end of the hall, right by the kitchen—quickly, breathing in with relief as she finally sat on her bed. Crookshanks, recovered at the war’s end, was lying atop the covers in a tight circle, seemingly asleep.

Hermione opened her bag and picked up her wand. Flicking it silently, she levitated a silver pocket watch—a piece from her father’s youth—towards her bedside table, right by a worn copy of _The Development of Memory Charms_ and the crooked wand she had kept. Following it came a notebook and a small mirror. Leaving her wand on the bed, she took off her heels and zipped off her dress. Looking away from her body as the opaque fabric came off, she put on the long cotton pyjamas she had set aside before leaving her flat; barely catching a glimpse of the carved brand on her left forearm or the purple scar cutting across her chest.

Finally lying down, Hermione picked up the thick book at her bedside table silently cast a _lumos_. Lying back against her pillows, she opened the worn book.

* * *

Walking past the fountain of the magical brethren at the Ministry’s atrium, Hermione joined the crowd of ministry employees and entered one of the many lifts lining its walls. She remained silent as the doors closed and it began to move, eventually coming to a stop at the fourth floor. Before too long she was at the main office of the Beings Division; an open hall-like room with rows of paired desks facing a set of offices separated only with clear glass. Walking towards her desk, Hermione hung her bag and overcoat—a warm, dark brown wool piece that reached her thighs—and sat down. Feeling drained after her late night, she allowed herself to sink into the standard-issue furniture. Breathing in deeply, she glanced at her watch before turning to look at the desk paired with hers. Zacharias Smith was late again.

A soft voice spoke up from behind her. “Hermione? Gethsemane wishes to see you. She’s in her office.”

Hermione looked up at her co-worker. “Did she say what for?”

The woman shook her head. “Not that I know”.

“Alright, thank you.”

Standing up, Hermione walked to one of the offices at the front of the room and rapped her knuckles on its glass door. Inside, a woman made a quick note on a piece of parchment before answering.

“Come in.”

Hermione opened the door. “I was told you wanted to see me?”

The older woman nodded. “I do, Hermione. If you may?” she said, motioning to one of the chairs in front of her desk. “I am afraid it is quite urgent.”

“Has a change been made to the project law?” Hermione asked, taking a seat. “Was it rejected?”

“No, no. The law is fine. More than fine.” Hermione’s eyes followed hers as she glanced to the parchment on her desk—a list filled with names. “I suppose that you have heard about the rightsizing process that is taking place within the Ministry?”

“I have, but I didn’t know it would affect this Department.”

Her supervisor paused and gestured at the piece of parchment in front of her. “Well, I am afraid that we have been forced to allow you to pursue other career opportunities.”

“What?” Hermione’s hands dropped to her lap. “Why me?”

“You’ve been an excellent employee, Hermione. Going forwards, however, someone who is less engaged with conflictive ideas and positions would be better suited for the department.”

“What ideas and positions?” she demanded. “I’m the best employee in the department!”

“The Minister’s Support Staff have been clear. Mr Blishwick has achieved excellent results in halting the negative growth of the department.” Gethsemane breathed in deeply. “We won’t simply be letting you go. Minister Shacklebolt insisted on offering you a different position.”

Hermione balled her fists. “What position?”

Her supervisor turned around and rummaged through the leather bag by her desk, taking out a few sheets of rolled parchment. Smiling, she handed it to Hermione. “The conditions would be different, but you’d be starting next week.”

“Do I need to give an answer immediately?” she asked, glancing at the roll of parchment.

“Oh, Merlin, no! You have until the end of this week. You can communicate your response to it by owl to Mr Blishwick.”

“Alfred Blishwick, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic?”

“The very same.” Gethsemane leaned forwards and smiled thinly. “I wish you the best of luck in the future, Hermione. I am very sorry to have to communicate this to you.”

“Of course,” Hermione said tersely. She stood up abruptly, momentarily shocking the older woman. “I will pack the things in my desk, then.”

Hermione turned mechanically and made to leave the office, uncomfortably aware of the way that other members of the Beings Division followed her with their eyes. Her lips curled briefly at the sight of her partner’s empty desk. She started to pack the stationary, office supplies, and belongings into her beaded bag, and, when the table had been cleared, put on her overcoat and walked out of the office. Mechanically, she opened the sheets of parchment and began to read the alternative job offer. She felt herself pale as she read over the conditions and pay; a part-time position in the archives of the Wizengamot Administration Services, remunerated only at a hundred and twenty Galleons, four Sickles, and eight Knuts.

Her monthly rent was of a hundred and eleven Galleons.

Hermione leaned back against a wall. She would have to get something else entirely or get another part-time job if she wanted to manage to pay her rent. Her savings weren’t substantial enough, not after years of trying to fix the memory charm that had stolen away her parents.

Scowling, she clenched her fist around the pieces of parchment and continued walking thorough the corridor.

*** * ***

The utensils rattled as Harry banged his fist on the table, making a few of the other patrons filling the Leaky Cauldron turn sharply in their direction. “That’s outrageous!” he shouted. “You’re the best person they’ve got, everyone knows that!”

A flash of anger run through Hermione. “I’m, apparently, too engaged with certain ideas and positions, and thus unsuited for the job,” she quoted, retelling Gethsemane’s words. “I’ve even been lucky enough to get offered a part-time position at the archives for a hundred and twenty Galleons, four Sickles, and eight Knuts.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “A hundred—,” he repeated. “That’s less than half than what you were already getting! What’s Kingsley thinking?”

“I’m not sure it was Kingsley. If my supervisor is to be believed, this was all on the Minister’s Support Staff. Alfred Blishwick, particularly”.

“You were the entire reason why that House-elf law got passed in the first place. It would’ve never been approved as a project hadn’t you hounded Kingsley,” Harry said indignantly. He looked down at his plate and pursed his lips. “Is that it, then? Ministry politics?”

“I can’t think of any other reason,” Hermione said. “You know how I ranked within my Department. Besides, Zacharias Smith’s father has been in the Minister’s Support Staff for years.”

“And is a good friend of Tiberius McLaggen, from what I understand.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “Then there’s Umbridge.”

“Umbridge,” Harry spat. “How that woman is not in Azkaban is beyond me. The number of times that—.” He breathed in deeply. “They must have been out to get you, Hermione. She must have been out to get you.”

The corners of her mouth contorted into a grimace. “I know.”

“I’m taking it straight to Kingsley,” he said loudly. “I don’t care what you say. I’m going to take this to Kingsley. It is intolerable.”

Her face fell slightly. “I’m not sure he’ll be able to do anything if it was the Minister’s Support Staff that arranged it. My only options for now are to find something new outside of the ministry or to compliment the position with another part-time job.”

Harry shook his head. “Don’t say that, Hermione. You know how much Kingsley likes you. If he’s told what’s going on, he’ll do something. You know he will. He’ll try to, at least.”

“Hopefully, though you know that his hold over the Ministry is still up in the air. Voldemort—.”

“Voldemort died five years ago,” Harry interrupted, “it’s time the Ministry realises that. Umbridge headed the Muggle-born Registration Commission. To have her remain under employment goes against everything we fought for.”

“I know, Harry,” Hermione said sullenly. “Hopefully he can at least discover what is going on.”

“I don’t like this, Hermione.” Sighing suddenly, Harry leant towards her and ran a hand through his hair. “There’s been news in the Auror department I was meaning to tell you, too.”

“How bad?”

Her best friend breathed in deeply. “I shouldn’t be talking about this too loudly, but it’ll likely be published in the Daily Prophet tomorrow.” Motioning for her to get closer, he glanced around them. “One of the old Death Eater Gringotts accounts was opened again.”

“Opened? Whose account was it?” Her heart skipped a beat. “I thought those accounts had been embargoed following the war.”

Harry looked at her grimly. “Yaxley’s. The matter apparently wasn’t as clean-cut as we were led to believe.”

“Has Gringotts volunteered any information so far?”

“None at all, the goblins hold that the entire affair is covered by their usual secrecy laws. We just know that no other Death Eater accounts have been opened.”

Hermione leant forwards and rested her chin on her hands. It was unsurprising, given how the precedent was. Gringotts was outside of the Ministry’s control. “Yaxley…” she muttered, shoulders tensing. “Do you think this involves the other Death Eaters, Harry?”

“That’s what has Robards worried.” Harry leant into his chair and ran a hand through his hair again. “Yaxley was one of the few that evaded capture together with Rowle, Travers, and Selwyn. The same thing goes for Greyback. If you factor in the escapees from two years ago…”

“Rookwood, Lestrange, Avery, and Dolohov,” Hermione added pensively. It was worrying news. None of those men were like to stay quiet for long, not with access to a Gringotts account. “Then there are the reports on the werewolf packs in Scotland,” she added. “It’s Greyback’s, isn’t it?”

“Most likely. Wynch and Davies have been handling the case.”

One of the Leaky Cauldron’s chimneys suddenly flashed green. A tall figure wearing the tell-tale grey uniform of the Auror task force walked out of it. It was easy to tell who it was, even with the scars distorting the right side of his face—Stephen Cornfoot, a Hufflepuff in their year. His blond hair, messy and unkept despite the bow tying it at the height of his chin, was covered with grime.

He strode towards them quickly, not wasting any time scanning the area around them. “Potter. I’m sorry to interrupt your break, but a new report has just come in.”

“What is the report on? Is it serious?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Harry nodded grimly and looked back at Hermione. “I’m sorry, I won’t be able to stay for much longer.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Harry.” She shook her head. “I’ll be seeing you soon?”

“Of course.” 

*** * ***

It was barely two when Hermione apparated into the old magical quarters of Whitstable, loud _crack_ ringing around her. Closing her eyes, she breathed in, enjoying the crisp scent of the nearby sea. It was a beautiful town; its smaller magical community the main reason why she had chosen it upon finishing her N.E.W.T.s.

Opening her eyes, she began to walk through the tiny street, towards an alleyway half-hidden between two apothecaries near its end. The clacking of her heels echoed as she cut through it, directing herself towards a rickety staircase. Ascending slowly, she pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door at its top. A loud creak reverberated as she swung it open. Shutting the door behind her, Hermione began to walk up a spiralling staircase. The wooden steps groaned as she climbed past the first and second floors decisively, to the flat she had called a home for almost four years now.

She smiled despite herself as she saw the familiar door of her flat. Hermione shut her eyes and breathed in. Standing still, she focused on the area around her. A shiver ran across her spine as she felt her wards, welcoming and familiar. They were intact, like always.

Hermione opened her eyes and unlocked the door, crossing through its threshold quickly. Grabbing the strap of her beaded bag, she had just about taken it off when her eyes zeroed on the chaotic state of the books and parchment stacked on her coffee table. The bookshelves weren’t in much of a better state; many tomes were out place, unseemly stacked atop each other, with some having been moved onto the floor.

Her heart began to race. _Someone’s been here_ , she thought, _but how?_

Hermione drew the wand at her forearm and pressed her lips together. Silently, she focused on her wards again and verified their integrity. She hadn’t made a mistake—they hadn’t been broken or changed.

Swallowing with difficulty, she pressed her back towards a wall and scanned the room around her once again. “ _Revelio_ ,” she whispered, waving her wand.

Nothing happened. Beyond the state of her living room, nothing had changed.

Stepping sideways, Hermione glanced at Crookshanks suspiciously. “ _Homenum revelio_.”

Hermione’s eyes darted up and narrowed on the hall leading up to her room as the tell-tale swooping feeling of the charm rushed through her. Whomever it was that had entered her flat was in there.

Taking her first step forwards, back still to the wall, she advanced slowly towards her room’s half-open door. Gently pushing it open, she observed the dark figure standing at its centre.

The intruding wizard was tall, though not enough to reach past her door’s threshold. He was wearing slightly tattered dark robes, with a wand holster strapped at the front left of his hip. A thick cloak hung from his neck. A book, likely one of the ones at her bedside table, was held open in his left hand.

Hermione feinted forwards. “Stupefy!”

A jet of red light lit the room. The intruder drew his wand and blocked her spell. Moving minutely, he flicked it in her direction. A white light lit the room. Before Hermione could react, she felt herself stiffen and collapse sideways onto the floor, bag crashing besides her. Her wand fell from her grip and rolled away, barely within her line of sight. Hermione felt herself panic. There wasn’t anything she could do if petrified.

“I’ll admit that I expected more,” he said, eastern European accent curling over the syllables as they cut through the sound of her own hectic breaths. “Though I suppose this makes things more convenient.”

The intruder threw the book onto her bed and walked towards her. Crouching down, he picked her wand and placed it inside one of his robe’s pockets. Allowing her a sight, for the first time, of just who had broken into her flat.

The proud, broad man standing before her was a far cry from the one who had attacked her at the end of her fifth year. Dark hair waved past his ears, with a few, shorter strands falling just short of his eyes. His jaw didn’t sport the tangled, unkept beard she could remember, and instead presented a short, neat cut. Whereas then, as during the war, he had been curled and weakened from years spent in Azkaban, the way he held himself in now belied a quiet sense of power.

Nausea grew at the back of Hermione’s throat. Beneath her working robes she felt the purple scar cutting across her chest, the remnant of his curse, twinge with pain.

Antonin Dolohov. One the four Azkaban escapees.

The dark wizard pointed his wand at her. “Stay still. I don’t want to see a single movement,” the Death Eater commanded brusquely. “Finite.”

Hermione threw herself sideways. Reaching for her bag, she drew Bellatrix’s old, crooked wand and pointed it at the Death Eater in her room. A silent, scarlet spell quickly sent it flying out of her hand. He stepped on her arm before she could reach for it again. Hermione cried out, feeling tears well up in her eyes.

The dark wizard narrowed his eyes. His expression, a veritable stone wall, didn’t shift as he put more pressure onto her arm. “Like I said. Stay still,” he ordered.

Hermione tried to pull herself away, to no effect. _My wand. Where is my wand?_ _I can’t apparate without my wand,_ she thought desperately _._ “Why would I?” she rasped. “You’re going to kill me!”

Dolohov frowned. Silently, he lifted his boot off her arm and stood back up. “No.”

Hermione flinched. “Why else would you be here then?”

The man observed her dispassionately. Silently, he leant forwards and picked up the crooked wand she had just lost. He let out a breath as he examined it, seeming to recognise it.

“Why are you here?” Hermione demanded. Gritting her teeth, she tried to pull herself upright. “Whatever it is, be quick about it!”

Dolohov looked away from the wand with a jerky and abrupt movement that denoted impatience. “I have no interest in killing you. I am here to offer you a deal.”

 _A deal?_ she thought incredulously. “I don’t believe that.” Clenching her fists, she forced herself to meet the Death Eater’s dark eyes. “Even if you were, there is nothing you could offer I’d be interested in.”

The corners of the Death Eater’s lips quirked up slightly. “Really?” he asked, gesturing at the book he had thrown minutes ago. “The _‘Development of Memory Charms’_ is a classic, but not something you’ll get counter-charms from.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. Her eyes darted towards the single door leading out of her room; she was closer to it than he was, but she’d never manage to make it out without a wand. “I don’t see how that’s of any relevance,” she bluffed.

“Not even if what you’re researching has to do with the Memory Charm you cast on your Muggle parents?”

Bile rose to her throat. Breathing in deeply, she tried to contain the wave of panic she felt grow. No one, not one person beyond her friends or the healers at St Mungo’s, was supposed to know about her parents. “How do you know about that?”

The Death Eater ignored her. Picking up the book with a deceptively careless movement, he flicked past a number of pages until he came to a stop midway through it.

The panic quickly turned into anger. “Answer me!” she shouted.

Dolohov turned towards her again. “This,” he said, tapping on a single page, “is the only useful commentary you will find in this entire volume on the practical applications of the Memory Charm. Still, it is a step in the right direction by comparison to the other books you have, if insufficient.”

“If you harm my parents—.”

The Death Eater’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s make one thing clear,” he said, shutting the book loudly. “I couldn’t care less about your Muggle family, contrary to whatever it is you believe. I am here solely to offer a deal to you.”

Hermione scoffed. She didn’t believe him. “And what is it that you are prepared to offer?”

“A solution for the memory charm you cast on your parents.”

Hermione breathed in sharply. Her mind began to race. Unprompted, her eyes focused on the blue tome. “Why?” she asked. “What could you possibly know?”

Dolohov smiled. “What you cast wasn’t just a memory charm. You erased their very identities.” His eyes brightened as he talked, widening with wonder. “It was much more powerful than that. Darker. Older.”

“Even if I believed you, why should I trust you at all?”

“A promise made is a promise kept,” the Death Eater said gravely. “Without the aid of someone like me, you’ll never get your Muggle parents back.”

Hermione’s eyes darted at the open doorway. He hadn’t attacked for now, and, if they kept talking, she might eventually get the chance to run to her chimney and escape through the floo network. “And what would I have to do in exchange?” she asked tersely.

Dolohov regarded her impassively. “Two pieces of information—one for each of your parents.”

“Why would you trust me to even help you in return?” she snapped. “You know I’ll tell the Ministry I saw you the second I can, and you’ll finally be put down!”

The wizard ignored her. Reaching into his pocket, he took out her vinewood and walnut wands. Holding them in his fist, he searched through an inner pocket further, until, eventually, he drew out a dark, pocket-sized book. Smiling wryly, he threw it onto her bed together with her two wands.

“What is that?” Hermione asked. “What are you trying to do?”

“I will not demand an answer now, but you’d do well to consider my offer,” he said easily. “If you are interested, come to the White Wyvern on the first of October. Be there at seven in the evening.”

Taking a step back, Dolohov raised his wand. A faint _crack_ reverberated within her room as he disapparated away, cutting through her wards as cleanly as he must have when he had broken in.

Hermione felt herself fall onto the floor. Bringing a hand to her face, she swallowed the lump in her throat and ran her fingers through her hair. Seconds later, she stood up again and walked to her bed. Grabbing her vinewood wand, she began to cast the first wards she could think of, not sparing a glance to the book the Death Eater had left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

The witch’s lips curled into a sneer as she looked Hermione up and down. Smiling disparagingly, she glanced back down at the piece of parchment. “I am afraid that you would not be a good fit as an assistant at Twilfitt and Tattings, Miss _Granger_.”

Hermione’s cheeks reddened. “I can assure you that I have ample experience working directly with clients and with formal procedures, Madam,” she said obstinately. “I may not have worked in a clothing store directly, but—.”

“Be that as it may, Twilfitt and Tattings is currently looking for different qualities in their assistants,” the woman said overly sweetly. Smiling, she handed the parchment back to Hermione. “Perhaps another store?”

She grounded her teeth. “I can understand, Madam. Thank you for your consideration.”

Turning away, Hermione opened the door brusquely and headed into the warm afternoon enveloping Diagon Alley. Stopping outside the polished exterior of the high-end clothing store, marred only by a few torn posters bearing the portrait of the old Minister for Magic, she forced herself to breathe in deeply. Her first picks, The Ministry Press and Obscurus Books, had rejected her three days ago. The stores she had applied to afterwards hadn’t offered her any change in luck, deeming her as either overqualified or not the right fit.

Scowling, she glanced down at her wristwatch. It was nearly four in the afternoon, the time Mrs Weasley had set for dinner, but she still had time to try to try her luck in at least another shop.

Gripping the strap of her beaded bag, Hermione resumed her way through Diagon Alley, keeping to its less crowded edges until she reached Knockturn Alley. Biting her lip, she only hesitated briefly before stepping into the dim and dour street. Walking briskly, she eyed her surroundings carefully, fingers brushing the wand held within the holster at her wrist.

She had just passed by The Starry Prophesier when she saw a sign reading ‘ _Assistant Required’_ hanging in Borgin and Burkes’ window.

Clenching her fists, Hermione forced herself to walk forwards. She wanted nothing to do with the ill-reputed shop, but she needed to pay her rent. Whatever reaction she received couldn’t be any worse than the ones she had already been given.

A bell rang as she pushed the door open. Bookshelves lined the store’s walls, stopping short of the narrow staircase at its far back. A number glass cabinets filled the space between them, their insides cluttered with a myriad of labelled objects. The air was stagnant and musty, with the faintest trace of what she knew to be sulphur.

“Excuse me?” Hermione called.

No one answered. Hermione further into the store, ready to call out again when the floorboards of the floor above her creaked. Soon, the steps of the staircase at the far back were groaning under the weight of a wizard Hermione quickly recognized as Eadgar Borgin.

“Miss Granger,” he said gruffly, walking deliberately towards her. 

He had barely changed since she had last seen him years ago, when he had kicked her out of the shop. His hair, dark and oily, stuck to the sides of his head as he stooped forwards. “I wanted to ask about the job opening,” Hermione asked tersely.

“The job opening?” Borgin repeated.

“Yes. I saw the sign and wanted to apply for the position.”

“I can imagine you saw it,” the old wizard said cuttingly. His mouth twisted downwards. “I remember you, Miss Granger; both you, and what you have done in the past. Why would a witch such as yourself be interested in the position I seek to cover?

Straightening her back, Hermione looked straight at the stooping man. “I didn’t know my reasons were important,” she bit back. “I am interested in applying. Isn’t that enough?”

Borgin’s expression twisted further. “I value my employees, Miss Granger.”

Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair and looked away from the greying wizard’s eyes. “I have recently come to a situation in the Ministry that has forced me to start looking for a secondary job,” she explained. “A part-time shop assistant position would be ideal.”

“What sort of situation are we talking about?”

“The terms and conditions of my position within the Ministry of Magic have recently been changed. The salary won’t be enough to cover my expenses anymore.” Breathing in, Hermione opened her beaded bag and reached for the piece of folded parchment she had been carrying since starting her job hunt. “Would I be able to use my curriculum to apply for the job opening?”

Borgin’s eyebrows rose. “Curriculum? I have no interest in your job experience or N.E.W.T. Results, Miss Granger. What Borgin and Burkes looks for in employees is different from what the Ministry and other Diagon Alley shops are interested in.” He paused and squinted his eyes, regarding her again. “Not since Caractacus Burke has this been a normal establishment. N.E.W.T. Results can only go so far. What can you offer me, Miss Granger?”

“How will you be able to tell without looking at my past experience?”

“I can imagine perfectly well what your results were, Miss Granger. I even have some idea of what your role at the Ministry entailed. I’m afraid, however, that in hiring individuals I strive to look beyond such official results.” Frowning, Borgin gestured at the objects on the tables around them. “I am looking for someone capable of independent thought and reasoning. Someone who is capable of enough focus and dedication to both know the merchandise we trade with and deal with the customers that depend on Borgin and Burkes.”

Nodding, Hermione glanced at the area around her. It wasn’t anything like the other stores in Diagon Alley. It was strange and cluttered, with the tell-tale, lingering remains of dark magic in the air. Sinister and unusual, it was located in a street that was nothing but dangerous.

 _Still…_ she thought, balling her fists, _I don’t have a choice_.

A few seconds went by before she finally replied. “I am excellent at research,” she said confidently. “I can memorise and discover just about anything, no matter what it may be. I know for a fact that out of the other employees working at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures I was the one with the best results. The text in the drafts of most of our recent project laws were my work.”

The older man rubbed his chin. “I see,” he said thoughtfully, after a few moments of silence. “Perhaps you may have what it takes to fulfil the position of an assistant at Borgin and Burkes, Miss Granger, though I still find it surprising that you would be interested in a store such as this over some of the more open ones at Diagon Alley.”

Her eyes widened. “You do?” she asked, feeling her grip on the piece of parchment she had taken out of her beaded bag slip. “Why?”

“No matter what our previous encounters may have been like, Miss Granger, or what your previous affiliations to the Ministry may say of you, it is plainly clear that you have what it takes to succeed in a position here.”

Borgin frowned. Feeling shocked, Hermione watched as he turned around and walked to the shop counter. Picking up a quill, he leant forwards and scrawled her name near the bottom of a piece of parchment, next to his own.

“What is your reply, Miss Granger,” he asked, looking back at her. “Would you be interested in working at Borgin and Burkes?”

*** * ***

The smell of the food Molly had prepared was still filling the air by the time the family broke apart and went their own way, with the matriarch joining Lavender and Ginny at The Burrow’s garden. Hermione followed her friends to the sofas set by the fireplace, preparing herself to reveal just where it was that she had managed to find a job.

A pair of eager looks fixed on her as soon as they sat down close together. “So, you managed to find a job already, Hermione?” Ron asked.

“Just before coming here. It’s part-time, in a store near Diagon Alley. I’ll be working three times a week.” Hermione bit her lip. “There’s another wizard working full-time, but I don’t know who it is yet.”

“That’s good, at least.” The redhead smiled. “You’ll be taking the position the ministry offered then?”

“Most likely,” Hermione said grimly. “There is more going on than meets the eye. I can’t give everything up and ignore it, not now.”

Harry leant forwards. “What store is it?” he asked.

“You probably won’t like it.” Hermione’s eyes darted to her friend’s nervously. “It’s in Knockturn Alley—Borgin and Burkes.”

“Borgin and Burkes?” he asked incredulously.

“Out of every store I applied to, Borgin was the only one to take me seriously. The only one,” she said angrily.

Harry pressed his lips together, unhappy. “I know, Hermione, but the people that man knows…”

“I am as unhappy about it as you are, believe me,” Hermione said. “Every other storeowner just offered apologies or insulted me on account of being muggleborn. Only Borgin—.” She breathed in deeply, attempting to calm herself down. “He didn’t even allude to the war.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “They dared?”

“It’s unbelievable.” Harry exclaimed, dropping himself back onto the sofa. “This entire thing’s unbelievable. You’re the best student to have come out of Hogwarts in decades. For them to treat you like that is—.”

Hermione remained silent as Harry talked on, feeling grateful for her friends’ righteous anger. “The amount he offered as pay surprised me,” she said, once things had gone quiet. Leaning back into the sofa, she thought back to the storeowner’s offer. “It’s more than the Ministry; if I were to work full-time it’d amount to more than the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures paid me before.”

“There must be a catch,” Ron said. He scoffed. “It’s hardly believable. If anyone’s a worm it’s Borgin.”

“Apparently, he believes it necessary to ensure employee loyalty and dedication. I imagine it’s to do with their business practices.”

“Loyalty?” he huffed. “He provided information on collaborators as soon as Voldemort was out of the picture. It’s the only reason the Ministry tolerates him.”

“I know,” Hermione said softly, “but, if it were true, I can see the logic of it. It’s far better in order to ensure you have happy employees.” Pausing, she regarded the fire burning within the chimney. “I can still remember some of the trials he declared at, though.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that,” Harry said, looking down. His expression soured. “On that topic, can you remember Festus Pyrites?” he asked softly, frowning deeply.

Hermione nodded. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to forget how Minister Pius Thicknesse had raged at the Death Eater upon his providing evidence at his trial, or how that very same man had acted as a key witness against his own ex-colleagues. He had been offered a handsome deal by the Auror Office in exchange. At least, that was what the Daily Prophet had reported.

Ron leant forwards. “What happened?”

“Robards has declared the entire matter to be classified but…” Harry muttered, looking away. “He was reported missing three days ago. There was no sign of a struggle in his house; no broken furniture, no signs of spell damage, no blood… Nothing. The ministry wards didn’t pick up anything. He’s nowhere to be seen.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. “Missing?” she repeated. “With Death Eaters still avoiding capture that’s—.” Unbidden, the image of Dolohov’s form flashed through her mind, and she looked away from her friends with a scowl. _Could he have…?_

“Hermione?” asked Ron worriedly.

“It’s nothing, just—.” She breathed in. “I hadn’t told either of you this yet, but the other day, when I returned to my flat, Antonin Dolohov was waiting for me inside.”

“Dolohov?” Ron said incredulously. “Bloody hell, what did he do?”

“How did he break in? Are you sure it’s safe?” Harry asked anxiously. “What did he do?”

“Nothing beyond petrifying me,” Hermione said breathlessly. “He said that he was there to make an offer to me. A deal. Once he left I casted detection charms and redid my wards—nothing. I’m still not fully sure how he got in.”

“Are you sure?”

Hermione nodded. “He also left me this.” Reaching to her beaded bag, she rummaged through it and pulled out the book Dolohov had given her. Its title, _Full History, Cases, Applications, and Variants of the Memory Charm_ glistened under the warm light of the room. “I don’t know how he got to know about my parents, but it’s clean.”

Harry drew his wand and cast a series of charms and counter-curses before grabbing hold of the book. “A book. He really just gave you a book.” Glancing at it suspiciously, he opened and flicked through the pages quickly. “This doesn’t look legal,” he muttered. “I wonder where he got it from.”

Hermione nodded. She had read the strange book already, though still not in as much detail as she could have. It was a rare volume on memory charms—one of the best she had ever seen. Though more historical than practical, it branched into some lesser-known variations of the charm which had gone unmentioned in other books she had read.

“It’s a commentary on memory charms. As far as I can tell it’s been out of print for decades,” she finally said. “Its ownership is not illegal per se, but its production and sale are a different matter.”

“There must be something more to this,” Ron said with a scowl. “Dolohov is—. You can’t believe this is all there is, Hermione.”

“I don’t,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “I can’t understand why he appeared like he did and offered me a deal just like that, but there must be more to this.”

Ron nodded. “The bank accounts and Pyrites,” he mused, turning to meet Harry’s eyes. “Do you think he’s involved?”

“He must be, he was one of the most loyal Death Eaters around. He never denied his involvement with Voldemort. He didn’t even attempt the Imperius defence,” Harry said forcibly. His frown deepened, and he looked at Hermione gravelly. “Did he say what he wanted in exchange?”

“He did; two pieces of information—one for each of my parents,” Hermione confirmed. “He didn’t specify about what exactly, but he gave me that book after stating his terms.”

“What I don’t understand,” Ron began to say, “is how he knows about your parents. Did someone at St. Mungo’s talk about it? Is someone collaborating with Death Eaters?”

“I’m not sure,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “I have an appointment with Alix MacMillan again tomorrow. An update, apparently. Perhaps I’ll get to discover something then.” Judging by the letter the owl had delivered it hadn’t seemed too serious, but one could never tell with official communications.

Harry’s frown deepened. “You must be careful, Hermione, especially with your parents. Dolohov hasn’t done anything yet, but if he so much as gets a chance he’ll—.”

The tell-tale taps of an owl’s beak against a window rang across the empty living room. The three of them turned sharply to face it, confused at the abrupt intrusion of the bird.

“An owl?” Ron stood up. “At this time of the day?”

“I’ve never seen it before.”

Neither had Hermione, for that matter; not such a large, brown owl. Yet there it was, perched on the windowsill. “It has a parcel,” she said, looking at the wrapped box held between the bird’s talons.

“Was your family was expecting mail, Ron?” Harry asked tersely.

“Not that I know. Mum didn’t mention anything.”

He stood up and walked towards the window. The bird flew into the room as soon as it had been opened and dropped a large box onto his hands. It didn’t land on any furniture, and, turning smoothly mid-air, it flew back out.

Ron walked back towards them. “It’s quite heavy,” he said.

Harry drew his wand and casted a number of spells silently, some unfamiliar to Hermione. A full minute went by. “Nothing,” he said. “There are no curses on the box or its contents.”

“Should we open it?” Ron asked, looking at the box suspiciously.

“Yes, just to make sure it’s safe. If it’s a delivery for Mr or Mrs Weasley we can apologize later.”

Harry and Hermione leant forwards as Ron tore the coarse brown wrapping paper open, revealing the strange package to be nothing but a simple delivery box. The redhead pulled its lid open in a single, fluid move which stopped at the sight of a pile of feathers.

“They’re covering something,” Harry said.

Ron tore through the remaining wrapping paper. Slowly, the patchy and prickled skin of what unmistakably was a featherless owl came into view. It was covered in dried splotches of blood.

Hermione’s eyes darted towards the carcass of the dead animal. Her heart began to race. _Pigwidgeon. That is definitely Pigwidgeon_ , she thought. “Ron?”

Her friend didn’t respond. Standing up abruptly, box in hand, he strode out of the living room. Behind him, Harry followed.

* * *

St Mungo’s fourth floor wasn’t too different from its foyer. The crowd of wizards filling the bright room was sparse, with only a few sporting disfigurements or obvious spell damage. Around them, healers in lime-green robes walked between groups of people, asking questions and making notes on clipboards.

Readjusting the strap of her bag, Hermione began to walk down the single corridor, directing herself towards Section B of the Janus Thickey Ward. She navigated the different turns automatically, not needing to think about her destination after years of visits. A young witch, slender and with dark, brown hair, was standing outside Alix MacMillan’s office by the time she arrived. It was Tracey Davis—the assistant who had, quite by chance, been assigned to the healer in charge of her parent’s case.

Her old schoolmate smiled sweetly. “Granger? You’re early today.”

“I am,” Hermione said, nodding stiffly, “Is it alright? I can wait if necessary.”

“Don’t worry about it. Healer MacMillan’s expecting you.”

Davis turned and opened the office door. Hermione followed behind her, entering the now-familiar room.

It had changed very little since her first meeting with the healer almost five years prior, upon her return from Australia following the war. Though small, it was deceptively spacious, with its white floor and walls giving the illusion of space that truly didn’t exist. A single bookshelf stood at a side, filled with magical periodicals specialised in the healing arts. Besides it, at the room’s centre, a birch desk with two small plush chairs in front of it occupied the majority of the space. It was here that Alix MacMillan—the mother of the boy who had been in her year—was sitting. Her hair, as blonde as her year mate’s, was kept in a neat knot at the back of her head.

Alix MacMillan smiled as she entered the room, her expression gentle and welcoming despite her tense posture. “Ah, Miss Granger. I was hoping to see you.”

Hermione sat in front of the healer. Behind her, Tracey Davis closed the door and moved to stand at one of the room’s sides. “I was told you there had been news?”

“Ah, yes. There has been an update in your parent’s case.”

“An update?”

“Yes, though I’m afraid it isn’t good news, Miss Granger.” Alix smiled gently. “A review of the long-term cases managed by this department took place recently. There is no easy way to say this, but I am afraid this review included your parents’ case.”

“Included them?” The palms of her hand began to get clammy. “In what way?”

The healer pursed her lips. “It has been decided that your parents’ case is to be discontinued, Miss Granger.”

“Discontinued?” Hermione cried. “I thought they were making progress after the examination that was done last month!”

“I dislike the decision that has been taken but given the fact that they are muggles and, medically-speaking, functioning perfectly, it has been decided that there is no case to be examined at all.” Alix MacMillan shook her head. “The heads of the hospital are all terribly sorry, but the case has been too much of a drain on St. Mungo’s resources.”

“Is there any way to appeal this decision?”

“I am afraid not, Miss Granger,” Alix said softly. Somewhere behind her, Tracey Davis moved to stand beside her. “The decision to examine these cases was undertaken in light of a change in policy owing to the cuts in funding. Only witches and wizards may be treated at St. Mungo’s for a period of time exceeding four years.”

Hermione leaned back. Blinking rapidly, she looked up at the office’s pristine ceiling. Distantly, she noticed her hectic, fast breaths. “Why?” she finally managed to ask, after a few seconds had gone by. “That’s hardly—.”

“Miss Granger,” the healer interrupted, her voice the same modulated and pleasant voice as before. She bent forwards and rested her elbows on the desk. “It isn’t a matter of how the case has progressed. Were they were wizards it would be different, but given how nothing has worked until now…”

The older woman stopped. Turning to face Tracey Davis, she gestured something slowly. Her schoolmate nodded and picked up a folder filled with parchment, which she handed to Hermione with a smile.

“I am very sorry, Miss Granger, I truly am, but there is nothing we can do,” the healer continued. “Given the situation, I suggest you consider yourself lucky that they can function normally in society. The strength of the memory charm they suffered was considerable.”

“I wasn’t informed of this. To change the state of the case after so long—.” Hermione’s hands tensed around the folder. “What am I supposed to do?”

“The folder Tracey has given you contains all of the research we undertook related to your parents, as well as the information pertaining to their case. Protocol dictates we destroy it given the discontinuation of the case, but we thought it would be better for you to have it.” Alix MacMillan smiled and gestured at it. “I hope it is of use to you, should you decided to continue investigating the matter by yourself.”

Forcing herself to breathe in slowly, Hermione looked back at the healer. “Is there is something that can be done? There must be a way to have the case reinstated.”

“Like I said, Miss Granger, I am truly sorry; but the decision has been made.” The older woman leaned back into her chair. “I hope that you manage to find a cure for the memory charm you cast during the war, though you should know that, at this point, my professional opinion is that recovery is unlikely.”

Hermione rose from her seat. “How dare you?”

Alix raised her hands, as if attempting to pacify her. “I merely stated my professional opinion as a healer, Miss Granger. However much I regret it, there is nothing more to discuss that isn’t contained within that folder.” Turning her body more fully she looked at Tracey Davis, impassive at her side, and gestured towards the door. “If you could call the next patient in, Miss Davis? Thank you.”

Hermione felt her heart drop. “Thank you for your help,” she forced herself to say. She wouldn’t give up. There was bound to be something she could do.

Pressing her folder against her chest, she began to walk towards the office’s door. Besides her, Tracey Davis followed, silent. Stopping abruptly, she turned back towards the healer as a single unbidden thought flashed through her mind.

Dolohov had known about her parent’s case.

Alix smiled, but the impatience building underneath was clear. “Yes, Miss Granger? Is there something else you wish to ask?”

Hermione gathered her thoughts enough to ask the question that had tormented her since the Death Eater had appeared in her flat. “Do I have a guarantee that the details concerning the case have been kept secret?”

“Of course, Miss Granger. All details pertaining to the cases St. Mungo’s handles are treated with utmost confidentiality,” the healer answered drily. “Only Davis and I have had full access to the case.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. That couldn’t be true, or, if it was, it only meant that Dolohov had found a different way to access the information. The only question was how. Did the fugitive Death Eaters have a way to enter St. Mungo’s undetected, or were employees passing on information?

Not giving away any of her inner turmoil, she nodded silently and opened the door. She walked back through the corridors absentmindedly, only distantly aware of how the crowds of people going through the fourth floor. Barely noticing the lift’s downwards movement, she pressed the folder against her chest and resumed her way out of St. Mungo’s in a daze that lasted until she had exited building completely.

A lump caught in Hermione’s throat. Drawing in a shaky breath, she felt for her bag and placed the folder inside it. Breathing in deeply, she forced herself to think through Healer MacMillan’s words. Her parents’ case had been discontinued, yes, but she had their file. She only needed to research more. Dedicate more of her time.

Was what Dolohov had said true, though? Had she been going about it wrong?

A rush of anger coursed through her at the thought of the foreign man. Her wards had been untouched, and she hadn’t found anything strange inside her flat. Nothing to indicate an ulterior motive of some sort. Worse yet was how his appearance coincided with the dark news Harry had shared and the horrifying state in which Ron’s owl had been delivered to his family home.

Tightening her jaw, Hermione opened her bag and searched for the dark volume the Russian wizard had given her. Opening and flicking through it, she scanned the variety of diagrams and theoretical arguments surrounding the Memory Charm before shutting it loudly.

It didn’t matter; nothing did. She only had to read through her parent’s file again, and later, prepare for her new role within the Ministry. There was no need to rush ahead blindly. Not with a man as dangerous and untrustworthy as Dolohov.

It was impossible for the man not to be involved in some way. Ron was right, there had to be something more going on. Something big.

* * *

Hermione cut through the hallways of the second floor quickly, her heels clacking against the marble floor. It was drastically different from her old department. Its hallways were wider, their flooring set in white marble rather than the dark, polished wood she had grown used to. The doorway that greeted her upon arrival at the archives’ sub-department of the Wizengamot Administration Services was no less impressive than the rest of the floor. It was an open arch flanked on each side by a set of columns that rose up at its sides, meeting the ceiling. A granite tablet with the words _veritas aequitas_ —truth and justice—loomed above it, dominating the entrance.

Drawing in a breath, Hermione stopped beneath the archway and allowed herself to contemplate the full breadth of the room. It looked splendorous. The floor plan featured a number of separate offices with embellished wooden doors. Portraits lined the walls, depicting a number of witches and wizards in archaic-looking robes. At the back, a number of windows offered a clear view of the ministry’s atrium and its statue of the magical brethren.

“Excuse me, are you Miss Granger?”

Looking to the side, Hermione met the eyes of the middle-aged witch who had addressed her. She was sitting behind a large desk by the room’s entrance, wearing some of the most formal black robes she had ever seen.

“I am.” She smiled. “I was told to come here in order to start my new position.”

“That you were,” the witch replied curtly. “Mr Fawley is currently meeting with a member of the public, but he wished to meet you in his office.”

“Ricbert Fawley?” she repeated, “the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot?”

“Of course. As the official head of our department, Mr Fawley always welcomes our new employees,” the witch said. Turning slightly, she pointed at one of the offices at the front of the room. “He’s right ahead. You will have to wait for a few minutes, though I do not think it will take too long.”

Hermione nodded her thanks and walked towards the office. Taking off her long brown overcoat, she sat down on one of the plush chairs lined against a wall. She only sprang up when the office’s heavy wooden door finally opened, revealing two men. The first was an unfamiliar old wizard, most likely Ricbert Fawley. Behind him followed a young, blond man she hadn’t seen since the war

The old wizard spoke with an appeasing, if sad, voice. “I am sorry, Mr Malfoy, but if your request wasn’t approved, I am afraid that you cannot search for the information you seek in the archives.”

Draco Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “This is outrageous,” he said irately. “I should have access to the records.”

“I do personally agree with you, Mr Malfoy, but I truly cannot do anything beyond what we already discussed,” the old wizard replied. “However, should you get an acceptable signature on your request I will be more than glad to provide you access. As it is, my hands are tied.”

“We both know that will never be allowed to happen under the current Minister’s aide.”

The old wizard grasped his hands together. “Miss Umbridge’s review of your case, though unfortunate, is not the end of the road. Mr Malfoy, I can assure you there are still other avenues at your disposition. Don’t give up hope.”

Draco nodded tersely. “Thank you for your time, Mr Fawley. I appreciate this.”

“I am at your disposition should you need any more advice, as you know.”

“Of course.”

Draco turned to leave, only to stop abruptly as he saw her. Paling slightly, he looked at her silently for a few seconds before offering a polite, if tense, nod. Startled, Hermione replicated it and observed silently as he started walking away.

“Miss Granger?”

Hermione turned away from her ex-classmate and faced the older wizard. “Yes. Mr Fawley, right?” she asked, slowly taking note of his appearance.

He was older than she had initially though, judging by the wrinkles on his skin, and stood not much taller than she herself did. His hair, a silvery white not quite like Dumbledore’s own, fell down to his chin in straight, neat lines. A pair of thin spectacles rested on his nose, hiding away his eyes slightly.

The wizard smiled and gestured towards the office. “Yes. I was expecting you, Miss Granger, please do come in.”

She nodded and entered the office, taking a moment to observe the grand space as Ricbert Fawley closed the door behind them. Bookshelves lined most of the walls, each overloaded with files. A desk with several piles of parchment and grey folders dominated the centre of the room, with two plush bright-red leather seats set directly in front of it.

“Please have a seat, Miss Granger,” the old wizard said with a smile, gesturing at the seats before walking around the table and sitting on a worn-looking armchair.

“Thank you.” Taking a few steps forwards, Hermione sat on the right-hand seat and placed her overcoat and bag atop her lap.

It didn’t take long for the Chief Warlock to speak. “It is a pleasure to see you here today, Miss Granger. I believe you were the person in charge of the Amendment to the House-Elf Charter of Rights the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures prepared?”

Her face lit up at the memory of the bill she had had the chance to work on. “Yes, I was trusted with its drafting.”

“I recently had the chance to read the text, Miss Granger. It was great work. I dare to say that the department has suffered a great loss with your untimely departure.” Fawley crossed his arms at his chest. “I’m pleased to have someone of your calibre here with us, I foresee a bright future ahead of you.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Onto the matter at hand, though” Fawley said decisively, leaning forwards. “I presume you read the letter with the offer which was given to you?”

“I did.”

“Very well, your position will require little explanation then,” he said, smiling. “As you know, you will be working within the archives themselves, sorting new files and entries.”

Hermione nodded, recanting the parchment she had been given when she had been fired. “Yes. As well as putting together the requests made by Wizengamot members of private witches and wizards of information they may wish to access.”

“Precisely,” the Chief Warlock confirmed. “Though it may not sound like much, it is work such as this which is at the very foundation of the Ministry, Miss Granger.” He glanced down at the desk and pulled up a sheet of parchment. “Should you need it, here are the details relating to the post once more.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the piece of parchment. Quickly reading over it, she folded it and placed it within her bag.

“Now, if you want, I can take you to the office of the witch who’ll be your direct supervisor. She should show you around and tell you where everything is,” he paused briefly, standing up. “I do believe that she is around your own age. She joined us after the recovery of the Ministry at the end of the war. Very dark days, those.”

A few knocks rang within the room, making them both turn around. Before Fawley said a word the door opened, and three men Hermione only knew from Daily Prophet articles and Ministry hearsay came in. First was the man she knew to be Alfred Blishwick, the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic; a middle-aged man with dark hair streaked with grey and a clean-shaven face. He was holding a folder of some sort against austere working robes. After him was Hannah Abbot’s father, the Senior Court Scribe of the Wizengamot. Tall and stout-looking, he had the same facial features her classmate had once had, greying blond hair merely shades off her own. A bright silver chain, clasped from a button of his inner robes, displaying an elegant pocket watch as it hung by his pocket.

Behind them both was Cormac’s uncle—Tiberius McLaggen; a Ministry veteran who had found himself in more positions of departmental authority than she could remember. The tall, greying man with hard eyes was one of Kingsley’s advisors, though the job title understated the experience and sheer political prowess he possessed. He had graduated Hogwarts on the year Grindelwald had been defeated, quickly moving on to work at the Ministry. From there he had been the British Representative to the International Confederation of Wizards for decades, as she had discovered during her final year at Hogwarts at the war’s end. A position which had been inherited, against all odds and to the outrage of many, by his brother—Cormac’s father.

Tiberius entered the office slowly, silent and unreadable by contrast to the two more expressive wizards who had preceded him. Fawley didn’t meet his eyes.

Alfred Blishwick, the youngest out of the three, was the first to speak. “I hate bringing this to you again, Ricbert,” he said, gesturing widely with his folder, “but Robards has brought up the werewolf issue in the north again.”

“The werewolf issue—.” Fawley’s expression dropped. “I already made my position on the proposed solution known.”

Oeric Abbott shook his head. “Ricbert, I’m sorry, but you know something needs to be done. The Prophet has been eating us alive.”

The old wizard narrowed his eyes. “You all know my position on this matter.”

Blishwick’s eyes widened. “Ricbert, innocents are—.”

Abbot placed a hand on Blishwick’s arm, quieting the man. “Did you read the interviews that were published this weekend?”

Fawley’s expression twisted into something resembling anger. Before he could reply, however, Tiberius stepped forwards. “Gentlemen,” he said in a surprisingly soft voice. “Though we all agree that this is a most pressing matter, perhaps we should remember that there is an employee who is getting held up in our discussion.”

Fawley’s eyes widened comically. “I am very sorry, Miss Granger,” he said apologetically, “but it seems I will be getting held up in a meeting.”

“It isn’t a problem,” Hermione said gently. “I can go to meet my new supervisor alone. Where can I find her office?”

“I wish I could introduce you myself, but I suspect this will be lasting quite some time.” The older wizard sighed and glanced at the door. “You will find the office at the end of the first corridor you will see when leaving this office, to the left.”

Alfred Blishwick smiled at her politely. “I am sorry for interrupting your meeting like this, Miss Granger; urgent ministry business, as it were.”

Hermione forced herself to smile at the Senior Undersecretary. He had been the one approve the decision to fire her from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. “It’s not a problem.”

Still smiling, she thanked Fawley before walking out of the office and through the corridor he had mentioned, keeping an eye out for the office the older wizard had indicated. It didn’t take her long to reach the office. Knocking on its polished wooden surface, Hermione waited patiently. A few seconds went by before she heard the scraping of a chair.

“Come in,” a feminine voice said.

The office was tinier than Fawley’s. Its walls were mostly bare, with only a few bookshelves hiding the room’s polished walls. At a side of the room an oak desk occupied most of the space. Sitting behind it, with the same distinctive curly, reddish-blonde hair she could remember, was Marietta Edgecombe.

The young woman’s expression soured as soon as their eyes met. “Ah. Granger,” Marietta said, looking back down at a piece of parchment on her desk. “I was told you would come.”

Hermione’s eyes were quickly drawn to the jagged scars spelling ‘SNEAK’ across her face, badly hidden beneath a layer of makeup thick enough to make the otherwise near-transparent hairs of her cheeks visible. Flattening her lips, she stepped forwards. Just how unlucky could she be?

“Mr Fawley told me to come here for the job,” she only said.

“Yes,” Marietta spat. “You’ll be working under me, it seems. Funny coincidence, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry if I am late. Mr Fawley—.”

Marietta waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, that doesn’t matter. You can go start immediately in the archives.”

“Pardon?”

The witch's eyebrows pressed into a deep frown. “Start, Granger. At the archives. You can understand that, right?”

Hermione forced herself to breathe in deeply. Losing her temper wouldn’t be of any help. “What will I have to do?”

Marietta waved at the door. “Go to the main archives floor and sort the new arrivals. Once you finish, return to me.”

“Main archives floor?” she said indignantly. “I don’t know where it is. How it is organised?”

“None of that attitude here, Granger,” the other witch said with a sneer. No matter what the unfortunate events between us in Hogwarts were this is a serious working place.”

Gritting her teeth together, Hermione forced herself to nod. “Could I have some directions, at least?”

Looking back at her desk, Marietta waved her hand again. “I’m sure that someone as bright as you will have no trouble finding its location. Don’t disappoint me.”

Hermione nodded again and turned to leave the room; fists clenched tightly. Closing the door behind her, she stormed down the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** I'd like to thank everyone that has followed, favourited, and reviewed this story so far. I wasn't expecting quite the reaction the first chapter got, but it's been great to see that it was enjoyed. Once again, all the errors are my own and thank you for reading!
> 
> Chapter three will be up in a week, with more plot developments to add to what happened in this chapter. No Dolohov in this one, but he may appear again fairly soon.
> 
>  **Update #1:** Text revised and edited as of 29/12/2020.


	3. Chapter 3

Her skin was cold and clammy when she awoke. The bedsheets on her bed were a tangled mess. Hair clung to her forehead and neck. Sweat drenched her pyjamas. Moonlight streamed through the single square window of her room, offering a dim view of the building next door’s brick wall.

The scar on her chest hurt.

Hermione pulled up the top of her pyjamas and bared her chest to the cold air of her room, her heart still racing. Biting her lip, she looked down at ugly mark marring the pale expanse of skin. It was barely any better than it had been whilst healing. It was still starkly visible, its jagged edges and strange, purple colour an ugly and terrifying reminder of the events which had taken place at the end of her fifth year in Hogwarts.

A sudden dip in her mattress saw Hermione reaching sideways to pick up the large body of her cat. Meowing softly, Crookshanks curled up atop her bare skin. Hermione gently scratched one of his ears, allowing herself to sink back into her pillows. Drawing in another shaky breath, she ran a hand through her hair, attempting to straighten it.

She wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again, not after this.

Moving Crookshanks, she pulled herself up from the bed. Strapping the wand holster at her bedside table onto her forearm, she grabbed her wand and made her way to her kitchen. Turning on the lights leading up to the small, outdated room she opened a series of cupboards and began to prepare herself a mug of coffee.

Minutes later Hermione leant back into her sofa. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to take in the sheer quiet and peace of the room, attempting to dispel the lingering flashes and images of her dream. It had been the second one this week. The latest in what now was a longstanding pattern.

It had felt terrifyingly real, it always did. The dark corridors of the Department of Mysteries, twisting and turning strangely as she ran through them. The smell of magic, heavy and charged. The distant sounds of shouts and screams mixing in with that of her own gasping breaths. She had been alone, just like she always was when she tried to escape the dark shadow of an enemy following behind. Glimpses of a silver mask and dark, heavy robes the only things in sight.

Reopening her eyes, Hermione pushed herself up and reached for the dark book which the man responsible for the scar on her chest had given her. Its title glistening temptingly under the electrical light of her living room.

The _Full History, Cases, Applications, and Variants of the Memory Charm_ had proven to be as interesting upon a second read as it had in her first one, if not more so. The rare volume was better than the small collection on memory charms she had amassed since the war’s end. It had proved to be, if dark, more detailed and informative than anything she had seen. How Dolohov had known to give it to her was anyone’s guess, but the meaning of the gesture was clear even through the sheer oddity of their encounter. If she wanted to heal her parents, she’d need his help no matter what she thought of his price.

Clenching her jaw, Hermione slammed the book shut and set it to her side. Springing up from the sofa, she walked towards one of the bookshelves encircling the room’s walls. She had bought most, if not all, of the specialized section on Memory Charms offered at Flourish and Blotts, as well as much of the catalogue Obscurus Books and The Ministry Press had sent her. Her research project had taken her through various commentaries and treatises on the working of memory charms and countercharms. If there was someone that knew about the subject beyond what the healers of St. Mungo’s knew it was her.

Hermione huffed out, frustrated, and drew out two titles she had found useful in understanding the scope of what she had done in order to save her parents—Waffling’s _Advanced Magical Theory_ and the more dubious-sounding _Curses and Counter-Curses_. Once they were secure under her arm, she picked up the folder Alix MacMillan had given her a days ago and walked to the circular dining table set in a corner of the living room. Taking a seat, she placed the books on the table and opened the folder, flicking through the numerous pages and reports on her parents’ treatment quickly.

Though her parents had been allowed to reside outside of the hospital over their being able to function normally in society, the sheer number of countercharms and potions that had been attempted by the healers at St. Mungo’s was a startling sight. The most commonly known countercharms and potions had been the first to be used, as shown within the first pages inside of the folder, to little effect. The experimental and rarer cures which had followed after them, though more promising, had not managed to make much of a difference. Her parents remained, for better or worse, in the same state in which she had found them.

Flattening her lips, Hermione shut the folder. Whether she wanted to admit it or not she was stuck. The folder which Healer MacMillan had given her only really served as a compendium of what hadn’t worked until now, much like her collection of books.

If she wanted to heal her parents she’d have to research far beyond what the healers at St. Mungo’s had attempted, but where could she start?

Leaning back into the chair, she glanced backwards, at the book the Russian wizard had given her. A rush of anger ran through her at the sight of its cover. Why was it that it was the single most useful thing in her possession, a full five years after the war’s end? What did the Death Eater know about that she had missed?

Clenching her teeth, Hermione opened one of her books again and began to flick through its pages in search of something, anything that could be of use.

Nothing.

Shutting it forcibly, she pushed it away, trying to resist the temptation that was Dolohov’s book. She didn’t want to consider the offer he had made, but she couldn’t deny that she had very little to work with at the moment. Particularly given the news she had gotten from St. Mungo’s.

Hermione bit her lip. _What information does he even want in return?_

She didn’t have access to anything beyond sensitive information related to the war and the Order of the Phoenix, and the Death Eater had to know that she’d never willingly give those away. It had to be something else—but what?

Hermione rose from the seat and walked to a nearby bookshelf. Absentmindedly, she ran a finger over the spines of the various books held within the warped shelves. She didn’t like how little she knew at all, particularly given everything that was going on, but it was clear that the Death Eater wouldn’t be forthcoming unless she accepted his offer.

 _I have no guarantee that he will actually cure my parents_ , she reasoned, mentally running through the different options laid before her. _Nor that the information he wants in return won’t harm my friends._

The last part was what raised the biggest problems. Dolohov was bound to be involved in the events Harry had told her about. The open Gringotts accounts, Pyrites’ disappearance, and Pigwidgeon’s death couldn’t be isolated events. Still, he had hit the nail in the head when he had said she was stuck. The book he had given her proved that amply.

Unbidden, a thought ran through her mind. Harry wouldn’t like it, but, perhaps, this was an opportunity to gain information on Dolohov and the other escaped Death Eaters. Any help gained on her parent’s case would be a boon—so long as he didn’t attack them, she had nothing to lose. As for whatever information Dolohov were to demand of her, she could always refuse to hand anything overly damaging or lie.

Clenching her jaw again, Hermione picked up another book and returned to the table. The least she could do was think about it. Even Harry would have to agree on the value of the opportunity laying before her.

* * *

Marietta was at the department’s entrance when Hermione arrived in the early morning. Not bothering to greet her, the older girl stood still as she stared at the middle-aged witch waiting in front of Ricbert Fawley’s office, as did a few other employees distracted by the same thing.

Hermione remained silent as the older woman was greeted by Fawley. It was hard not to recognise her, not with the near-constant reports the Daily Prophet ran on her longstanding campaign—Fausta Thicknesse, the wartime Minister for Magic. She looked younger in person than in the Daily Prophet’s cover pictures, though the grey hair mottling her dark hair and the wrinkles left no questions as to her age.

Marietta huffed and shook her head. Her lips quirked up into a sneer. “There she goes again. It’s like she never gets tired.”

Hermione looked at her boss. She was wearing slightly less makeup than the first time she had seen her, allowing a clearer view of the scars on her face. “Does she come here often?” she asked.

“Does she come here often?” Marietta repeated. Her sneer deepened. “Of course she does. Just this month alone she has dropped by Fawley’s office five times.” Her face twisted as Fawley allowed Mrs Thicknesse into his office. “She keeps insisting that her husband was under the _imperius_ curse throughout the entirety of the war, as if her guilt hadn’t been proven in the trials amply enough. All those witnesses—. Getting in the way of everyone’s jobs—.”

Huffing again, the older girl turned to face her. “Which reminds me about the fact that you should be in the archives, Granger,” she said tersely. “There are new arrivals awaiting sorting.”

Hermione clenched her jaw. “Of course. In the reception area?”

Marietta smiled. “Where else?”

Hermione walked across the reception area. She smiled at the few co-workers she had met on her first day on the job, ignoring the feeling of frustration welling up inside of her, and began to make her way towards the Ministerial archives.

It was only after five minutes of navigating the twisting set of corridors that she reached the ornate double doors of the archives. Dark and carefully polished, they had a prominent set of charms and wards layered atop them which prevented access from anyone without a permit.

Pushing open the doors, she stepped into the massive hallway that served as the general collection of the Ministry’s archives. It was completely different from the rest of the department. It was cold, far colder than any other level of the Ministry she had been at. There were no windows. Its walls, painted a dull grey, were almost completely covered with rows and rows of compact metallic shelving. The lights, all fixed to the ceiling, barely shone brightly enough to distinguish clearly the labels on the files. A strange scent akin to ozone lingered in the air, likely due to the heavy wards protecting the rooms.

Hermione walked across the edges of the room and crossed the open archway that led into different sets of rooms dedicated to documents of various security classifications. Some, particularly those which contained documents with the highest security level, had files locked under charms and wards of their own.

She breathed in easily once she reached the very end of the corridor. Pushing open a simpler-looking door, she entered the small room that served as the arrivals area for new files. It was sparsely decorated, containing only a large set of shelving units designed to hold new arrivals. The destination of each of these files was differentiated only by the parchment magically stuck to their sides, indicating the security level of the file and its official title.

Kneeling down, Hermione quickly began to pick up the files already lined up within the shelves. Though there weren’t as many as on her first day there were still a fair few, a number of them containing the newly filed records from the Wizengamot. She was about to pick a few of them up when a charmed paper airplane flew through her peripheral vision. Unfolding itself in front of her, she quickly recognized the looped handwriting of Marietta.

Fawley wanted to see her.

Breathing out heavily, Hermione stood back up and made her way to Fawley’s office. The door was open when she arrived, with no sign of the woman she had seen entering previously.

The kindly wizard who had welcomed her on her first day addressed her quickly. “Ah, Miss Granger. Yes, I wanted to talk to you.”

Hermione smiled. There were a number of parchments stacked on his desk, along with a sealed letter. “Is there a document you want me to retrieve, Sir?”

The Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot nodded. “There are a few files in the archives I need to access. This falls outside of normal procedure, but it is quite urgent.”

“What files would they be?” she asked. Organisation system aside, it shouldn’t take her too long to find anything that the Head of the Department might need.

“I need to read Pius Thicknesse’s records again. You should be able to find them at the fourth level of the archives, within his trial files.” The wizard steepled his hands and rested his chin on them. Leaning forwards, he met her eyes. He seemed oddly serious. “Please bring them to my office as soon as you find them, Miss Granger. Access shouldn’t be a problem but do be careful.”

“Of course, I’ll bring them back as soon as I can.”

“Thank you for your help, Miss Granger. Some new information will likely make them relevant again, thus their sudden need,” the man said cheerily. “How have your first few days in our department been? Not too bad, I hope?”

“I’ll admit that I didn’t quite expect the archives to be organised quite in the way they are. Why alphabetically?”

The corners of Fawley’s lips quirked up. “You wouldn’t believe how many problems we can sometimes find with retrieval—the sorting system isn’t quite the best, but it’s been organised like that for decades,” he said. “How has your supervisor, Marietta, been? I understand you were both classmates in Hogwarts?”

“Not as well as I hoped,” Hermione said, grimacing. What could she say about how the ex-Ravenclaw had treated her? “We don’t always see eye to eye.”

“I’m sure you will both figure things out.” The Chief Warlock smiled apologetically. “If things don’t improve as time goes by, come to me and I will make sure to talk to her. You are a valued employee of the Department, Miss Granger.”

The memory of Dolohov flashed through her mind, and Hermione looked away from the older man guiltily. She hadn’t reported the man’s appearance, but she certainly should have. “Thank you,” she said.

A soft knock on the office’s heavy wooden doors sounded throughout the room. “Ricbert, a moment?” a wizard said loudly. “I need to leave for Scotland to oversee the plan concerning Greyback’s old pack before the morning is over.”

Hermione turned to find Oeric Abbot at the door. His shoulders were raised and stiff as he clutched what unmistakably was the same silver pocket watch he had been wearing on her first day in the Department. It was open this time, if just barely, allowing a glimpse of the photograph within the cover’s underside. Hermione couldn’t recognise the smiling woman, but the identities of the other two people beside her were clear—the girl who had been her classmate, Hannah Abbott, and Oeric himself.

“Of course, Oeric,” Fawley said. He smiled at Hermione again. “Sorry, Hermione. It seems our meeting will be cut slightly short again.”

Hermione nodded. Turning around, she left the office and walked back to the archives, following the same path she had less than an hour ago. She bit her lip as ran through Oeric Abbott’s apparent assignment in her mind. It was good that the issues concerning Fenrir Greyback’s old pack were finally going to be addressed, given how the man had succeeded in evading capture so far. Still, the question of just what would happen to the werewolves involved—all men and women who had once been coerced by Greyback into joining his pack—didn’t bode too well.

A shiver ran through her spine as she re-entered the archives. Turning left at the open archway, she entered the room that served as the storage point for files ranked at the fourth level of security. Flattening her lips as she crossed through the heavier wards set around the room, she stopped and scanned the room.

 _Just where_ _will Pius Thicknesse’s trial file be located at?_ she wondered. It was anyone’s guess where it could have been placed under the alphabetical organisation system. Had it been classified under the man’s own name, or under a different title, as a part of a larger group of files?

Hermione sighed and began to walk across the rows of shelving units, deciding to first search for the former Minister for Magic’s name. When her search revealed nothing, she gradually began to look through the other rows of shelves, searching for his first name and previous positions. Eventually, a good number of minutes later, she finally came across a sizeable set of files at the end of the room. Though clearly labelled, the chosen title for the group of files— _Second Wizarding War Trials_ —revealed nothing about their contents.

Kneeling down, Hermione picked up the first of the files in the set. She smiled as she saw Thicknesse’ name. The file that the Chief Warlock wanted was within this collection, together with those of the other people who had been tried.

Picking up the first file, she read through the list of documents contained within. They were organised chronologically, with Thicknesse’s at the very front. Following after him were Albert Runcorn’s and Cornfoot’s own father, along with a long list of Death Eaters and collaborators.

Flicking through the different sections of the heavy file, she soon found herself looking at the introductory notes of Pius Thicknesse’s trial. Close to the top of the page, a picture from a Daily Prophet special headed the section. It was hard not to recognise it—the pale figure of the old Minister at the moment of his sentencing, when he had been condemned to the Dementor’s Kiss.

Hermione swallowed and detached the section. It was all that the head of the department would need. Unbidden, however, her eyes fell on the titles of the sections following the old Minister’s. The typewritten name of Dolohov stood out, along with that of other Death Eaters.

His files were quite close to Thicknesse’s own, most likely due to the dates on which he and other Death Eaters had been called to stand trial. Though the surviving original members of the Knights of Walpurgis had been the first to be tried—Bedivere Avery, Livius Mulciber, and Thoros Nott—other big names had followed soon afterwards. Amongst these had been Death Eaters like Augustus Rookwood, Rabastan Lestrange—the brother of which had apparently died resisting arrest at the Battle of Hogwarts—and, finally, Dolohov himself.

Biting her lip, Hermione flicked quickly to Dolohov’s file. It wasn’t something she should so much as consider, but it was hard to resist the temptation. Any information on the man beyond what she already knew would be welcome, considering what he had offered.

The report heading the trial records, dated nineteen eighty-seven, appeared to be a summary of previous information on him. An extract taken from a Daily Prophet article from a year later appeared in bold underlining, with pictures of a serious-looking youth and a ragged-looking man dominating the page besides it.

_ARKADIY DOLOHOV DIES_

_Authorities have confirmed that Arkadiy Fyodorovich Dolohov, one of the oldest known servants of You-Know-Who, has passed in Azkaban due to poor health. His son Antonin, who famously took part in Death Eater attacks despite his young age, has remained incarcerated within the same prison since the discovery of his crimes in 1987…_

Hermione turned the page and began to read through what must have been one of the first reports on Antonin Dolohov. Just three years older than Bill Weasley, he had been under Ministry tutorship since the time of his father’s arrest. He had been awarded a Mastery in Charms fresh out of Hogwarts due to research on warding, only to be arrested at Tintagel Island at the age of twenty.

As she read on, she found herself grimacing. His early induction into the Death Eaters at the age of fourteen or fifteen hadn’t stopped him from actively participating in the war. The Russian wizard had instead managed to stand out as a brutal Death Eater with a penchant for spell creation. Over the course of the investigation following his arrest, his participation in Muggles attacks and use of illegal dark magic had been completely uncovered; with charges concerning the murders of Fabian and Gideon Prewett—corroborated by Igor Karkaroff in his own trial—and of his own Ministry-posted tutors being added later. Another turn of the page revealed an additional set of reports dated from after his capture at the Department of Ministries, together with a final set of documents presented as evidence in his trial following the Battle of Hogwarts. Unlike other witches and wizards tried at the time, he had never denied anything.

Hermione shut the folder and breathed in shakily. Though the file seemed to lack the sadism Harry said was ever-present in the records of wizards like Greyback or MacNair, the clear descriptions of just what he had done were unnerving. Dolohov was, perhaps, one of the worst Death Eaters to have as an escapee. It was clear that he was dangerous, particularly due to the single-mindedness reports claimed he possessed and his magical expertise. Had he wanted to it was clear that he would have been able to kill her inside of her flat.

Why hadn’t he? What could be valuable enough to risk approaching her as he had?

Placing the file back onto its shelf, Hermione stood up and pressed Thicknesse’s records into her chest. Pointedly avoiding looking back at the trial records, she began walking back to Fawley’s office. She had work to do.

*** * ***

Harry smiled at her as she approached him. “How was the morning, Hermione?”

Hermione smiled back. He was in his auror robes, she noticed, fingertips stained with ink. “Better than the first day, though Marietta doesn’t want to make things easy for me,” she said.

Her best friend frowned. “You shouldn’t put up with it if she doesn’t see reason.”

“She still holds what happened at Hogwarts quite close to heart. If she doesn’t stop, I’ll tell Fawley about it.” She sighed. “Same place, or are we going elsewhere today?”

Harry nodded, and soon they were walking through the hustle of ministry employees as they made their way to the Atrium’s cafeteria. It was one in the afternoon, and, thus lunch break for the majority of employees.

The place proved to be as crowded as it always was when they got there, with a number of witches and wizards filling the rows of tables set across the bright, airy room. It didn’t take them long to get to a table near the back. It was empty, much like it always was, and they took a seat just as a young wizard approached to take their orders.

Harry looked at her pointedly as soon as the wizard walked away. He leant forwards, lacing his fingers. “Is it true?” he asked. “How did they justify it?”

Hermione immediately knew what her friend was asking about. “It is. Alix MacMillan said it had to do with recent cuts in funding and changes in policy—only witches and wizards may be treated at St. Mungo’s for longer than four years.”

Harry’s fingers tightened. “That’s ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “Did she say nothing else? I thought the case was advancing well.”

She pursed her lips. “So did I,” she confessed, “but she said there was nothing to be done. She even implied I should count myself lucky to have them alive.” Pausing, she looked around their table discreetly. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them. “I asked her if the case details had been shared with anyone, given, you know—,” she continued saying, this time lower, “—but she said that that hadn’t been the case at all.”

Harry frowned and leaned back. He looked surprised. “I don’t understand it. That they choose to close the case now is outrageous, no matter what the rules may say. Beyond that, some information has to have gotten out too, given…” He breathed out forcefully. “ _He_ knew about it.”

“I know, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do beyond continuing the research myself.”

“I know this upsets you, Hermione, but—.” Harry’s expression fell slightly. “Whether you manage to cure them or not, no matter what; you are like family to me and Ron. You know that, right? Always.” He smiled. “If you need any help with the research, just tell me and I’ll do my best to help out in any way I can.”

Hermione smiled. “I know. Thank you, Harry.” She leant forwards. “You’ll disagree with me here, but I’ve been thinking that it may be in our best interests for me to accept the offer,” she, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s mouth twisted downwards. Eyes darting around, he drew his wand and cast a Muffliato charm. “Take it?” he said. “Of course not! You know the things he’s done. He’s most likely lying, and—.”

“I know that, but you haven’t seen my parent’s file. The book he gave me, too…” Her hands shook. “I have no idea where it got it from, but it’s better than almost everything I’ve read on the memory charm until now.”

“Hermione,” Harry said tersely. “He’s a death eater.”

“Exactly! Dolohov escaped together with other convicted death eaters years ago, and we still know nothing at all about what they may be doing. You know that better than anyone, Harry,” Hermione insisted. “I don’t like the thought of this either, but even ignoring what I’d discover in relation to my parent’s case. How much information would I be able to get on what they’re doing? We’d have to be able to meet somewhere. That alone will be valuable information.”

Her friend’s expression darkened, but he didn’t argue. “Still. He said he wanted information in return, didn’t he?”

“He did, but if he’s offering me a deal it can’t be anything I’d be immediately opposed to. Besides, I can always give him watered down information if it comes to that, or even half-lies.”

“I don’t like this, Hermione, but I’ll trust you if you decide to go ahead.” Harry sighed. “Just keep me updated on what you do, alright?”

“I will, thank you,” Hermione said, smiling. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Of course,” Harry said, lips quirking up. “Onto another pressing issue, though. You must have heard already about the preparations for the commemoration of the war’s end are advancing.”

Hermione nodded. How could she not—it was the only thing the Daily Prophet had been reporting throughout the week. “The fifth-year anniversary. Kingsley wants you there?”

“Yes, he asked me officially this morning, though he’d already warned me about it in advance.” He breathed out shakily. “I don’t like it—you know I don’t—but after all the things we had to go through… If I can help to pacify things for Kingsley now that he’s in office I won’t complain, especially if it helps to bring some more change to the Ministry.”

“I know.” She sighed. “I’ll be there too. I don’t think I could avoid doing so, even if it’s mostly a society event.” Opening her mouth, she was about to continue when a series of loud cracking noises reverberated throughout the cafeteria. Her head whipped up in the direction the sounds had come from. She drew her wand. “What was that?”

Harry stood up, holly and phoenix feather wand ready in his hand. Around them, nervous murmurs filled the room. “I don’t know.” He said stiffly. “It came from outside here—from the atrium.”

The loud cracks reverberated within the room again, noticeably louder. A second of silence passed before the tell-tale sound of wards crashing down filled the air, followed by screams. Harry started to run in the direction of the atrium before she could say a word, auror training obvious in the way he cut through the crowd of people. It didn’t take long for Hermione to follow him. Evidence of spell damage grew the more she advanced, with most of it seeming to have come from the collapse of the wards rather than a direct attack.

It was too late by the time she got to the Atrium, though the scene that greeted her revealed more than aptly what had happened. Bright and virulent flames were licking up the fountain of the magical brethren, ready to expand further despite the ongoing attempts to contain them. The throng of people which would have normally filled the hall was nowhere to be seen. To a side, Harry was arguing with a group of aurors she didn’t recognise. A few others, amongst them Stephen Cornfoot and Marcus Flint, were patrolling the perimeter.

Clenching her jaw, she searched for an indication of just what had happened. Someone had to have broken into the Ministry, but how? Not just anyone could get into the Ministry anymore. Not with the wards and security measures which had been put place after the war.

It was only once she had walked past a few straggling wizards that she saw it. A corpse, hanging from the front of the fountain of magical brethren.

Hermione felt herself grow pale. Her lower lip trembled as she walked towards the fountain. It was a man—a wizard—clothed in the distinctive robes which had been used by Death Eaters, broken mask hung from his neck. His face and features had been etched into her mind ever since the role he had played in the trials that had followed the second wizarding war. Light hair, pale complexion… there was no mistaking it.

Festus Pyrites was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank all of the people that have reviewed and enjoyed this story so far, it means a lot to see comments with people's thoughts! I hope that this chapter was enjoyable. My apologies for posting it so late. I was aiming to have it fully edited a full three or two weeks ago, but with everything that's been going on the amount of work I had to do for university suddenly skyrocketed. It's finally properly done, though (and the next one shouldn't take nearly as long). 
> 
> For anyone wondering, I imagine it won't be too much of a surprise-killer to say that Dolohov, along with certain other characters, will be appearing again very, very soon. This chapter marks the near end of the first part of the story, and the plot as it is properly understood will be picking up pace very soon. 
> 
> In establishing the post-First Wizarding War timeline, you'll notice that I took certain liberties with the dates in which events took place and the ages of certain characters (Dolohov for now, though this'll feed into the ages of certain other characters). This isn't simply gratuitous changing, and I can promise that this all leads somewhere. As a bit of an incidental detail, my giving the full name of Dolohov's father establishes his own full name completely too.
> 
>  **Update #1:** Text revised and edited as of 29/12/2020.


	4. Chapter 4

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a sharp crispness unnatural for the first day of October. Pulling the lapels of her coat tighter around her neck with her left hand, Hermione cut through the few groups of people roaming around Diagon Alley in the early morning. The wind, too strong for the otherwise shielded street, swept through her hair, making it flutter behind her.

It wasn’t long before she reached Knockturn Alley. Crossing through the large, open arch that served as its principal entrance, she began to direct herself to the shop which had hired her. The bright and joyful atmosphere of the typically crowded street disappeared a few steps into the neighbouring shopping area, replaced by a dismal and dreary bleakness. Forlorn tumbledown buildings dotted its sides, interspersed by the sombre fronts of its resident stores.

It wasn’t long before Hermione began to encounter people.

A strangely long queue had formed outside of Shyverwretch’s Venoms and Poisons, far outdoing that of Tallow and Hemp Toxic Tapers. Cobb and Webb’s, a shop she knew Harry had investigated a number of times, was similarly busy. Only the Spiny Serpent was different. Its small, wooden door was bereft of customers. Its windows, wide and clean, displayed only an unremarkable set of vases. She had heard Ron complain about it once, after the war. The specialised shop was notorious for being selective with its customers, up to the point where even the Ministry had trouble discerning exactly what went on within it.

Walking around a group of witches sitting on the sidewalk, Hermione directed herself towards Borgin and Burkes. The bell by the shops’ front door tinkled as she pushed it open, alerting her new employer of her arrival.

“Ah, Miss Granger,” the old wizard said. He was wearing a set of robes remarkably similar to the ones he had worn upon hiring her. His hair, dark and oily, was stuck to his forehead. “Ten to nine—more than perfectly in time.”

“I didn’t want to be late,” Hermione said, attempting to smile. “What am I to do?”

“You colleague’s currently fulfilling a delivery, though he should return soon,” Borgin said. “I suppose I’d best introduce you to the workings of Borgin and Burkes.” He looked around the room. “If you could follow me.”

Walking around the multitude of glass cabinets filling the centre of the room, Hermione followed the old wizard to the staircase at the back of the room. The steps creaked as they ascended to the second floor, an open space filled with bookshelves that had been purposed as storage units.

“Stock not currently in display is stored in the first floor. Any new acquisitions are to be brought here for examination,” Borgin explained. He gestured at the far side of the room, to a desk set between two small windows facing the street. “Any spells to be cast for that purpose are to be done there. More elaborate research can take place within the back rooms.”

Hermione nodded. “I understand.”

“Never restock anything without consulting me first. If asked to by a customer, deny having whatever it is they seek. I will handle them.” He quickly continued. “If you have any problems, tell me. Customer or not, if anyone acts threateningly do not hesitate to make them leave. Borgin and Burkes has a reputation to maintain.”

Borgin didn’t wait for a reply. Turning around, he walked down the staircase and pointed towards the front of the store. “You will be in charge of attending any customers that enter, so it will be best if you familiarise yourself with the objects we sell. Your colleague is in charge of any deliveries we have to make.” He paused and looked at her thoughtfully. “Is there anything you would like to ask?”

Hermione frowned. “Will research be included in my duties?” she asked.

“Yes, particularly in relation to any valuable or strange artefacts, though that will wait until you’ve familiarised yourself with our stock.” Borgin turned to look at the shop counter. “A detailed inventory is kept within the first drawer. Do not hesitate to use it.”

“I understand.”

“Good,” Borgin said. “You will undoubtedly find working here vastly different from the Ministry, Miss Granger, though I suspect that will prove beneficial.”

“What am I to do now?”

The older man frowned. “Tend the counter and familiarise yourself with the inventory. Once you are familiar with the majority of our stock you may examine the new arrivals.”

Seemingly satisfied, Borgin observed her silently before walking back to the staircase. Before she knew it, he had disappeared back to the first floor, leaving her alone in the shop’s single, main room. Breathing in deeply, she sat behind the counter and took out the inventory book from the drawer. The book, a heavy and old tome, showed signs of considerable wear. Its pages had yellowed significantly, and its binding was in a bad state. Despite it, however, the details within were meticulous and unambiguous. Barely anything was held back in the multitude of lists it contained, with the handwriting alone displaying a clarity that many in her old Department would have envied.

Turning the pages of the book slowly, Hermione began to read through the inventory list, taking care to look at the objects it described every few seconds. Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be impressed. Borgin had been nothing but dedicated. It gave a full list of the identity of the seller and the nature of the artefact, noting its price carefully. Though a great number of them were ethically and legally dubious at best, there was nothing that could actually be deemed illegal. It was clean—at least as far as what had been written within showed.

She had almost reached the end of the volume when the shop’s door opened, revealing a pale, young man she recognised immediately as Theodore Nott.

Her silent ex-classmate scowled as soon as he saw her. “Granger,” he said spitefully. “I never thought I’d see you here. You’re Borgin’s new hire? The part-timer?”

His hair was the same dark brown she could remember. He had grown in height since the war, though his weedy build hadn’t changed too much since then. “I am. Are you his other assistant?” she asked, at a loss.

“Of course,” Nott jeered. He looked at her pointedly and smirked. “What manner of tragedy happened for you to end up here, Granger? Has the great Ministry failed your career aspirations?”

Hermione grit her teeth. Briefly, the image of Marietta Edgecombe flashed through her mind. “What is it to you, Nott?”

“It’s good to see it happening to you,” he said. “It’s the norm, after all. What pureblood was it that kept your coveted position?”

The staircases at the back of the shop groaned. “Theodore,” her employer said harshly. He narrowed his eyes. “Was Mr Malfoy pleased with the object he ordered?”

Nott’s eyes widened. “He was,” he said, curling in on himself slightly. He looked uncomfortable. “His mother was there to receive it.”

“You’ve done a good job,” Borgin said dryly. “I assume you’ve met your colleague before?”

“Yes, we were classmates at Hogwarts,” he said. He forced himself to stand straight. “I won’t allow any lingering differences between us to get in the way of work.”

“Good, see that you don’t,” Borgin said impassively. His eyes softened. “I trust I have nothing more to add?”

“No,” Nott agreed. “I will return to work now, if it’s alright.”

Borgin nodded and walked away. Nott remained still, seemingly frozen in his spot. He looked at her again, apathetic expression not giving away any of his previous disdain.

Hermione followed him with her eyes as he walked away, towards the other end of the shop. _Just how_ , she wondered, _did Theodore Nott ended up working at Borgin and Burkes?_

They had never done so much as talk outside of group work, but she could remember the silent boy well. They had shared a number of classes up to their delayed seventh year, and she had seen enough of his work to know that his grades ought to have almost been as good as her own. He was good—too good to have wanted to work full-time at a place like Borgin and Burkes straight out of Hogwarts.

Hadn’t he wanted to join the Department of Mysteries, once?

The bell by the shops’ front door tinkled before she could get back to work again. Hermione looked up, ready to greet whichever customer had just so happened to enter the shop, only to find three figures in the tell-tale grey uniform of the auror task force. Her close friendship with Harry allowed her to recognise them easily. Mervyn Wynch, the oldest of the group, stood at the front of the other two, posture taut and weary. Behind him, to his right, was Roger Davies, whom she could only just remember from Hogwarts. He was glancing at the artefacts displayed inside of the shop, scowling with apparent disdain. Finally, besides him, was Stephen Cornfoot; his scarred and slightly distorted face displaying what could only be concern.

Hermione forced herself to smile. It was unlikely they were searching for something to buy. “Is there something you need?” she asked politely.

The three men swerved sharply. “Hermione?” Cornfoot blurted out, stepping towards her. “What are you doing here?”

Grabbing his shoulder, Wynch pulled the other auror back. “I did not know you worked here, Miss Granger.”

“It’s a recent development,” she explained.

Davies’ expression soured. “I hope you know what you are getting yourself into, Granger,” he chided. “You of all people should know how disreputable this place is. You bright future will be tarred if you don’t stay away.”

Theodore Nott approached the three aurors from his place at the back of the store. He looked as apathetic as he had before, though the rigidity in his posture gave his real thoughts away. “What do you want?”

“Ah, Nott. It is a pleasure to see you,” Davies sneered. “I see you are still stuck in this decrepit place?”

Nott’s tone of voice turned acerbic. “I asked you a question,” he retorted. “If there is nothing you want to buy, leave.”

“Watch what you say, Nott,” Wynch warned. “You know what happened to your rat of a father. We can arrest you anytime we want.”

“I was declared innocent by the Wizengamot,” her old schoolmate remarked. He smiled caustically. “I even declared against my own father. There’s nothing you can do against me.”

Wynch gestured sharply at Davies. Davies pulled out his wand, seeming to understand the gesture. A bright, sudden light filled the room. Moments later, Nott had fallen onto his knees, choking. Trembling, he clawed at his neck in an attempt to somehow alleviate the pressure.

Paling, Hermione lunged forwards. “Mervyn!” she shouted. Kneeling on the floor besides him, she grabbed hold of the pureblood’s shoulders in an attempt to hold him up. “He’s choking, can’t you see? This isn’t—.”

A low and uncharacteristically meek voice rose from the back of the shop. “Gentlemen,” Borgin said. He was stooping forwards, giving him a pathetic, grovelling look that went against everything Hermione had learnt of the man so far. “I am sure Mr Nott did not mean the discourtesy.”

Mervyn huffed. Shaking his head, he gestured at Davies again. Behind him, Cornfoot looked away. “Davies. Stop.”

“If you say so,” Roger agreed. Smiling, he waved his wand again. Nott’s body slacked, heaving in air with a dirty, gurgled sound. “Be careful next time, Nott,” he spat.

Though his eyes had narrowed, Borgin’s next words were nothing but pleading. “Is there something I can help you with, gentlemen?”

“Yes,” Wynch said stiffly. “We’ve received information on a possible collaborator within the Department of Mysteries. Do you have any information on their identity?”

“A collaborator within that department?” Borgin asked. He smiled widely. “I’m afraid I am not fully familiar with the workers who are posted there.”

“You must know something, Eadgar,” Wynch continued. “You always do. Who is it? Has anyone suspicious caught your attention?”

“Anyone suspicious…” Borgin muttered. He crossed his arms and leant his head down, as if in deep thought. “Perhaps I do know something, though I am not entirely sure.”

The three aurors remained perfectly still, waiting for her employer to continue. Their expressions, unabashedly earnest, very nearly made her gasp. _He’s putting on an act_ , Hermione realised, still holding her old classmate up. _Borgin’s been feigning from the moment they walked in_.

“Well?” Davies asked impatiently.

“It is your duty to report any remotely suspicious thing you see,” Wynch affirmed. “We will investigate the truth of the matter.”

Borgin pursed his lips. “May I ask what it is in relation to?” he asked. “Perhaps that will lend some clarity to the matter.”

“It’s in relation to the death of Festus Pyrites,” Wynch explained. “We have suspicions concerning possible inside collaborators.”

“Ah, I see,” Borgin said, nodding energetically. “Yes, I think I can remember. I may have seen someone suspicious, though only briefly. He was asking for directions. Wasn’t interested in browsing this shop.”

“He?” Davies repeated. “Who was it?”

“A young wizard. Average height. Brown hair. Dark eyes. Around Mr Nott’s and Miss Granger’s own age, I believe,” Borgin said. “Nondescript ministry robes, with no visible insignias. He didn’t say his name, but he wished to go to the White Wyvern.”

Something about Borgin’s words seemed to unnerve the three men. “Very well, Borgin, I believe that will be of use,” Wynch said stiffly. He then turned to look at Hermione, eyes glistening with something akin to malice. “Be very careful about who you mix with, Miss Granger. That boy who you just defended is marked.” He smiled. “You could not take that Mark against your will—Gawain and I know that very well. He’s guilty by association irrespective of Fawley’s and Kingsley’s laws.”

He left without waiting for a reply, Davies close behind him. Stephen Cornfoot, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, lingered after them. “I’m sorry, Theo,” he said hesitantly. He looked ashamed. “I can’t do anything. Not here. Not with them.”

Nott glared at their scarred classmate with all the composure someone who still hadn’t recovered from a choking spell could muster. Stephen flinched, visibly taken aback. Before long Borgin and Burkes was empty again.

“Rest in the rooms upstairs if you need to, Theodore,” Borgin said. He was standing straight again, eyes fixed on the door. “I was hoping they would come before you returned from the delivery. I apologise.”

Theodore shook his head. “I will be alright,” he rasped. “Thank you.”

“If you’re certain,” her employer said. “If you need anything more, I’ll be upstairs.”

It was only after Borgin had left that Hermione thought to move. “Do you need help getting up?” she asked softly.

Nott swallowed painfully. He seemed to be about to refuse her offer when he doubled forwards, coughing hoarsely. “Perhaps,” he wheezed.

Hermione helped him stand up. “It’s outrageous,” she exclaimed. “Kingsley will hear about this. Robards—.”

“Don’t be naive. Robards is perfectly happy with it,” the pureblood spat. He rested his side against the counter. “He has been for years, just like much of the auror task force.”

Something about his words angered her. “Harry and Ron would never willingly go along with this,” she said, defending her friends. They couldn’t know the full extent it, else they’d have already said something. “They defended Slytherins at the trials for a reason. It’s ridiculous, five years after the war, to still—.”

“None of that matters. Why do you think I’m working here?” Nott asked derisively. He shut his eyes, hand shaking. “The way you were fired, if the society papers are to be believed, should have taught you better. Boy-who-lived or not, the Ministry is its own being.”

“You can’t know that,” Hermione argued. “I know things aren’t be perfect, but we still can fix them. We just need to continue working. Progress is slow.”

Nott laughed mirthlessly, shaking his head. “Don’t be naive. Work and brilliance don’t matter. You could be the best in your new department and, no matter what, you’ll still never see the progress you desire. You’re, by default, the same as me—a pariah. A mudblood still, even if your side won the war.” Pausing briefly, he raised a hand, as if to pacify her after his use of the slur. His expression opened up, enough to make the sincerity of his next words clear. “You have my thanks, Granger, for all they’re worth.”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” she said. She could have, though, had she dared to cast something against the aurors. She looked away, angry at her own impotence. Things weren’t going to stay like this. “You may not trust them, Nott, but I’ll talk to Harry and Kingsley about this. It’s intolerable.”

“Theo, call me Theo. We’re workmates, after all,” Nott said. Smiling grimly, he looked at the front of the store. “Allow me to offer you this piece of advice, though. Ignore this. Don’t tell anyone about what just happened, it will only get you into trouble.”

Not waiting for a reply, he pushed himself off the counter and looked at her again. He had grey eyes, Hermione noticed. The same hard, haunting shade trial reports had held his father’s to be.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have some work to do.”

* * *

Nighttime had set in by the time Hermione began to make her way to the White Wyvern.

Streetlamps shone dimly, illuminating the streets in yellow, flickering, flame-like light. Shops remained open, offering their services at a time in which most of Diagon Alley’s businesses would have closed for the day. Scattered groups of witches and wizards lingered in the alley’s edges and corners, the almost relaxed way in which they stood hinting at the commonality of the sight.

Hermione came to a stop outside the White Wyvern. Located up a flight of stairs between Markus Scarrs Indelible Tattoos and a pawnbrokers, the pub was hidden in the upper floors of the nearby buildings, its presence indicated only by the charmed sign hanging at its side. A lone magpie observed her from its perch atop it, bizarrely out of place in the early evening.

Ignoring the apprehension she felt at her own decision, Hermione walked up the staircase and pushed the pub’s entrance open. A few of the people scattered around the dimly lit, wide room turned to look at her as she cut through it. Before long she had taken a seat at the empty edge of the bar counter, her back against the wall. The bartender, a young wizard dressed in dark, traditional robes, approached her. He was young—younger than her, by the look of it—and did a poor job of hiding the open disregard with which he looked at her muggle style of dress as he addressed her in a thickly accented English.

She kept her head down. “I’m waiting for someone.”

The wizard huffed. Picking up some of the dirty glasses near her, he shook his head. “Five minutes and you’re out,” he growled, walking away.

Hermione looked around the room, searching for any sign of the Death Eater she had finally decided to meet.

The pub looked dilapidated. The air, stagnant and old, was heavy with the scent of stale beer and the barest hint of the sulphurous odour only dark magic could bring. A grey, patternless wallpaper covered the room’s walls. The chairs and tables, all baroque pieces of carved wood, were worn and dirty. A number of posters were displayed behind the bar, between two sets of shelves filled with bottles of alcohol. One of them, a discoloured sheet of paper, displayed an unflattering photograph of several high-ranking ministry workers; its title, ‘Thicknesse Innocent’ leaving no question as to their origin. Besides it was old propaganda piece from Voldemort’s year in power, its vivid colours and bold proclamation of unity unmistakeable.

It was a minute before she finally saw him; a wizard in a long, dark cape sitting by a table at the Wyvern’s other end. He was alone, though the half-drawn chairs and empty glasses opposite him pointed at that not having been the case for too long. He was disillusioned, though not completely; enough to prevent any clear sight of his face.

He looked at her.

Hermione’s eyes darted away. Her heart began to race. _That can’t be Dolohov_ , she thought. It couldn’t be. She could remember the foreign wizard well. The man was too thin to possibly be him.

Taking in a single, deep breath, she looked back up at the man. He was still looking at her, gaze fixed in her direction. Leaning back, she watched as he began to sketch eight letters over his robe’s sleeve.

Hermione’s hand shot up to the brand carved into her left forearm. She forced herself to nod. It was clear he knew why she was here, even if wasn’t Dolohov.

The wizard rose from his chair. Calmly, he began to walk towards one of the corridors at the back of the pub, as if he hadn’t so much as seen her. Hermione staggered up to her feet and began to walk after him, not sparing a glance to the other people inside of the pub. Drawing her wand, she followed him through the thin, twisted corridors leading to the back of the White Wyvern, until she managed to reach him at the edge of a staircase.

“Who are you?” she asked. “You’re not Dolohov.”

“I’m not,” the man declared, looking down at her wand. He tutted. “I was told you kept Bella’s old wand.”

Something about the gesture and the tilt of his head allowed Hermione to finally see through his disillusionment charm. Vivid, deep-set blue eyes. Soft brown hair reaching past a cleanly shaved jaw. A long, pale face. She inhaled sharply. “Rabastan Lestrange,” she sputtered, raising her wand.

“That will hardly be necessary,” the death eater said, gesturing at her wand with a single, smooth movement. “You were expecting to see Antonin, correct?” he asked, voice soft and silvery.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She knew Dolohov couldn’t have possibly been trusted, book or no book. “Why are you here?”

“I’m here to take you to Antonin, of course,” the death eater said gallantly. “If you could please follow me.”

He began to walk down the staircase, old wood creaking beneath him. Hermione followed, wordlessly observing him.

She had last seen Bellatrix Lestrange’s brother-in-law during the trials, when he had been condemned to life imprisonment in Azkaban together with a number of other captured death eaters. His picture had been published upon his escape barely a year, along with that of Rookwood, Avery, and Dolohov himself.

 _How involved was he with Pyrites’ murder?_ Hermione wondered. Given the role Pyrites had played after Voldemort’s death, the question was only one of degree.

Were her parents safe?

Hermione’s mouth dried at the thought. Sweat, cold and clammy, began to gather on her brow. The smiling monster besides her had tortured Neville’s parents into insanity. “What do you and Dolohov want, anyways?” she tentatively asked. “Are you also behind what he offered?”

“Hardly. That offer is purely from Antonin” the death eater said easily. He walked up to a heavy, oak door. Cold air blew in as he pushed it open, revealing one of Knockturn Alley’s many backstreets. “I’m here only as the third party to the vow.”

“Vow?” Hermione repeated. “Why not discuss things here?”

“How else would he be sure you’ll fulfil his terms, and he yours?” Rabastan answered. He glanced at her. “As for the Wyvern, it’s not safe—too well known by the Ministry.”

They cut through the backstreets at a leisurely speed. Mud, thick and slurry, pooled at the pavement’s edges. Grime covered the walls. Not a witch, wizard, or magical creature was in sight. If Knockturn Alley was dangerous at the best of times, its backstreets were worse.

“You do have her wand, don’t you?” Rabastan said. He looked at her, blue eyes shining with a strange, wild interest. “A second, most likely. It can’t be in the holster at your forearm, and it’s not in either of your pockets.” He smiled insincerely. “Do you keep it in that bag of yours?”

Hermione felt herself pale at his assessment. “I don’t see how that is relevant,” she said harshly. “She’s been dead for years.”

The death eater clenched and unclenched his jaw, expression darkening. “Oh, no, don’t misunderstand me. I couldn’t care less about dear Bella’s old wand,” he said, voice jarringly tranquil. “I just find it fascinating someone like you would have enough affinity to make it useable at all.” He pressed on wordlessly. Eventually, they came to a stop in front of a short, squat building which resembled a shed more than it did a house. “If you will,” he said, gesturing at an old, dilapidated door.

Drawing a deep breath, Hermione pushed the door open. Heavy wards fell around her as she stepped in. Unbidden, her eyes were immediately drawn to the figure of Dolohov as he leant against a decayed, brick wall, hand at the wand holster strapped to his hip.

For a brief moment the sight of the dark wizard, cast as he was in the shadows brought by the room’s sole lit candle, made Hermione forget how to breathe. He had been one of the single most terrifying things in relation to Voldemort, once. His expression that day at the Department of Mysteries, grim and single-minded, having been veritably carved into her mind. He was wearing a similar expression, now, if noticeably more composed. His clothes, similar to the ones had worn that day in her apartment, were visibly tailored for combat.

She looked away as Rabastan pushed past her, taking in the rest of the room. Its walls, bare and dusty, were made out of the sort of dark, thin bricks that could only be found in old buildings. Much of the furniture scattered around was either rotting or broken. The entire area was warded—likely by Dolohov himself—though she couldn’t tell what effect beyond anti-apparition and anti-disapparition.

“She came alone, Antonin,” Rabastan said.

Dolohov looked at her listlessly, only acknowledging the other death eater with a nod. His eyes bored into hers. “How did you find the book?” he asked.

“Where did you get it from?” She crossed her arms at her chest. “I checked—sale is illegal, and it hasn’t been in print for years.”

It was Rabastan that replied. “His personal collection, I do believe,” he explained. He looked down at his fingernails. “An utter rarity after over twenty years of censorship.”

Hermione frowned. She could see why it had been banned after reading it multiple times, but that alone didn’t explain the lack of mention of its contents elsewhere. _Still—_ , she thought. “What about my parents? Their case was held under secret.”

The edges of Dolohov’s lips quirked up. “Alix MacMillan and Tracey Davis, yes?”

She paled. “How—?”

Rabastan interrupted her. “How much do you know about Miss Davis’ family background, Miss Granger?” he asked. He shared a glance with Dolohov. “Fascinating halfblood—quite the disloyal little thing.” He smiled, pulling himself straight. “She has quite a grudge.”

“A grudge?” Hermione repeated. Her mind ran through everything that she knew about the seemingly friendly assistant. She had never declared against her—there had never been a reason to. She hadn’t even been at the Battle of Hogwarts. “Why? I didn’t do anything to her.”

“Didn’t you?” Rabastan asked, raising his eyebrows. “What about her father?”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “But that’s—,” she said, faltering.

She could barely remember Tracey Davis’ father. He had been one of the many who had supported Voldemort’s regime, going as far as to collaborate with the Muggleborn Registration Commission. She had had a hand in his arrest following Pansy Parkinson’s declarations at the Wizengamot, but that was it.

Her eyebrows raised in confusion. “Why are you telling me any of this?” she asked. “I actively helped Harry Potter. If anything, you should be helping her.”

“A deal’s a deal,” Dolohov stated solemnly. “You read the book. You’re here. Why hide it away, if you’re willing to accept my offer?”

“Is that it?” she asked, feeling bewildered. It couldn’t be, not from the man before her. Not when it involved her, the muggleborn who had played a role in Voldemort’s defeat. She couldn’t believe it. There had to be something more lurking beneath their offer. Something insidious. “What information is it that you want?” she demanded.

“Two pieces of information—one for each of your parents,” Dolohov said. His lips curled into a thin, wicked smile that made Hermione flush with anger. “I won’t reveal exactly what until they’re needed.”

The words were enough to make Hermione lash out. “How do you expect me to go along with that?” she asked, gesturing violently at the two men. “How can I trust two death eaters? That information could be anything. How can I know it won’t harm my friends—that you won’t harm Harry?” She balled her fists. “He’s the reason Voldemort’s dead.”

Any semblance of the polite, smiling gentleman Rabastan had been playing at disappeared as his face contorted into an ugly frown. “Antonin—,” he bellowed.

He quieted down at the sight of Dolohov’s single, raised hand. “Rabastan,” the foreign wizard said, eyes not leaving her own. “The offer is mine. Rabastan is here only as the third party to the vow,” he affirmed. The candlelight flickered, casting him briefly in shadows. “The information is of no direct harm and consequence to them.”

“You can hardly expect me to fall for that. It may not harm them directly, but the scope of that word is open to interpretation.” Hermione shook her head, letting out a huff. “The Weasley’s owl, Pigwidgeon, was recently killed and delivered to their family home in a box. Are you telling me you had nothing to do with that?”

A flicker of surprise flashed through Rabastan’s face. Dolohov’s expression, closed and unreadable, remained impassive. “No,” he said.

Hermione froze. _It’s true_ , she thought, looking at the two men. _It’s really true, they had no idea_. She ran a hand through her hair. “Alright,” she said. “I’m willing to make a deal, but only if you swear not to harm my parents and friends—directly and indirectly.”

“Only directly,” Dolohov replied, shaking his head. A few strands of hair fell over his eyes. “A reference to indirect damage would be unsafe given my connections.”

“I presume you will be asking for the same thing?” Hermione asked. She sighed as the death eater nodded his assent. It was, however much she hated it, a reasonable demand. “Fine. How will we communicate? Will owls suffice?”

Dolohov smiled crookedly. “Trusting owls with valuable information is risky at best. No, contact me directly.” He reached into one of his cloak’s pockets and pulled out a thin, small notebook which he quickly threw at her. “This.”

Hermione turned the leather-bound piece around, observing it with academic curiosity. It nothing but ordinary. Its pages, all blank, were thin enough to allow ink to seep through. “A protean charm?” she asked.

“And more. Secrecy, too,” Dolohov said. He paused and regarded her silently. “I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.”

Hermione nodded, eyes still fixed on the notebook. It was cursed, that much was clear, but how exactly? “Very well,” she finally said. “How will we do this?”

She flinched as Dolohov began to walk forwards. He stretched out his right arm as he stopped opposite her, accidentally revealing the numerical tattoo on his wrist. The sight made Hermione’s eyes widen. She had seen a very similar brand on Sirius’ own skin once upon a time, years ago.

The purple scar on her chest twinged as she clasped his hand, fingers covering his Azkaban prison number. It was warm, she noticed, with callouses on his fingertips. “Do it,” she ordered, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

Breathing a laugh, Rabastan flicked his wand. A thin tongue of brilliant flame wound its way around their hands like a hot wire, searing their skin.

The candle flickered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to all the people that have subscribed, reviewed, and left kudos on this story. It means a lot to see that people have enjoyed reading what has been published so far.
> 
> My apologies for taking so long with this chapter. I wanted to have it up far, far sooner, but life and work got in the way, and I couldn't focus as much as I wanted to on it. Everything is going well again, so I'm quite excited to write and post the next chapters. You can expect me to focus completely on this story (at most I'll be updating 'An Inn in Tirana'). Suffice to say, there are several hints at what's to come in this chapter, as well as on the developing intrigue in the background, though they're subtler than in previous chapters.
> 
> Now, just to say that I hope my take on the characters has been enjoyable to read, I've been trying to balance and flesh them out as best I can. I haven't been able to stop myself from writing Borgin as a no-nonsense, intelligent, businessman. Perhaps it's a bit of a departure from canon, but given how long he seems to have managed to be around I feel it's a justified interpretation.


	5. Chapter 5

Bright emerald flames flared up in the fireplace, illuminating the cramped living room in flickering shades of green.

Hermione closed the book on her lap and placing it on her coffee table, smiling brightly. She had expected their visit, given who it was that she had met the day before. “Harry, Ron,” she said, greeting them. “It’s good to see you.”

Harry’s expression relaxed at the sight of her. “We came here as early as we could,” he said, out of breath. “Are you alright?”

Ron looked her up and down, visibly worried. “What happened?” he asked. “Was Dolohov there? Did he try to attack you?”

Hermione observed them calmly. They looked dishevelled. Ron’s shirt had been buttoned up incorrectly, making large swathes of the white t-shirt underneath it visible. Harry’s cloak, a smooth, dark piece gifted to him by Ginny, was tied haphazardly at his neck, only just barely covering his shoulders.

“He didn’t do anything. Everything was exactly as he said,” she explained.

“Thank Merlin,” Ron breathed out. He dropped himself onto the sofa. “I realise it’s too late, but are you sure about all of this?”

She nodded as confidently as she could. “I am.” Looking away, she thought back to the strange meeting that had taken place on the previous night. “Yesterday only affirmed it. It’s not just my parents. I couldn’t say no with everything that’s been going on.”

Harry took a seat besides Ron. “Was he saying the truth?”

“As honest as could be.” Raising her right arm, Hermione showed her two friends the fresh mark of the Vow she had undertook, burnt around her wrist like a shackle. “We undertook a vow.”

“A vow?” Harry repeated. His surprise didn’t last long. Stepping forwards, he grasped her forearm. “Who was acted as the bonding agent?” he asked, examining the mark closely.

Hermione sighed. “Would you like some tea? Explaining everything could take some time.”

Her two friends shared a quick glance before nodding. “That would be great. Thank you, Hermione.”

Smiling again, Hermione left the room. Drawing her wand, she flicked it in the direction of her kitchen appliances. Two mugs flew out of the cupboard, followed by a pair of tea bags. Levitating towards the sink, the kettle filled itself with water. Not a minute later it was pouring it into the two mugs.

Harry and Ron smiled as she walked out of the kitchen with the two mugs. “Here,” she said, setting them on one of the few, empty spots on the coffee table.

Harry leant forwards and grabbed his mug. “Thank you,” he said. He took a sip from the scalding liquid. “So, who was the bonding agent, Hermione?”

“Rabastan Lestrange himself.” She continued before Harry could interrupt her, explaining the events of the night before as best she could. “He was waiting for me at the White Wyvern. He said it was only to take me to Dolohov himself, but it looked like he had been sitting with other people before then.”

“Was he involved at all with Dolohov’s offer?” Harry’s expression fell. “What were the terms of the vow? Can you talk about this at all?”

“He said he wasn’t, though I’m still not sure what to think,” Hermione confessed. News had been scarce on the two men since their escape two years prior, with barely any direct sightings at all. It was even worse in relation to the two remaining escapees, Rookwood and Avery. “The vow was simple enough. He will cure my parents in exchange of information, though he didn’t reveal what exactly. No direct harm is to be caused wilfully to anyone close to us, whether friends, family, or associates. Indirectly, too, in the case of each other.”

“I suppose it could be worse. No secrecy clause, but it sounds like that’d fall under a direct or indirect attack depending on the situation,” Ron said. He sucked in his lips, thinking her words through. He picked up his mug. “Why only directly for friends? Do you think they’re planning something?”

“He said he thought adding it would be unsafe given his connections.”

“This confirms it, Hermione. They’re all working together. We suspected as much already, but this settles it,” Harry said. He ran a hand through his hair. “Rabastan acting as the bonding agent can’t have been a coincidence. The others are probably in the know too—Avery and Rookwood, at the very least.”

“I thought so too,” Hermione agreed. “The information Dolohov wants will probably be tangentially connected to whatever it is they’re planning. I’m still not completely sure what to do about that.”

“We’ll think of something, Hermione. It’s just a matter of planning things out,” Harry said. “How will you be communicating?”

Reaching for her beaded bag, Hermione pulled out the small, leather-bound notebook Dolohov had given her. It was still empty. The death eater hadn’t attempted to contact her yet, and she wasn’t going to do so first. “He gave me this,” she explained. “It has a protean charm. I haven’t tested it yet, but I imagine whatever I write will show in its pair. As far as I can tell it’s cursed, though only against other people.”

Ron observed the notebook with open curiosity. “I’d wager there must be something to ensure secrecy, too,” he said. “Dolohov was a charm’s master, right? He was three years older than Bill, but he can remember him well. Said he was paranoid, even at Hogwarts.”

“Paranoid?” Hermione repeated. She carefully tucked the notebook back into her beaded bag. “How so?”

“If he so much as suspected you of wanting to attack him, he’d be on you before you knew it. He was an outright terror, apparently.” He paused and turned around, frowning as he looked at the dim view offered by her windows. “Brilliant with wards, though. The Order always assumed he had a safe house hidden away with enough of those to put Gringotts to shame. They were wrong though, of course. He never managed to escape.”

“His file…” Harry muttered. He looked worried. “Be careful, Hermione, vow or not. He was one of the youngest ones, but that only makes him worse.”

“There’s something else, too,” she added hesitantly. She breathed in deeply. Harry and Ron weren’t going to like what she was going to say. “I asked them if they knew anything about what happened to Pigwidgeon. Rabastan looked surprised, and Dolohov denied having anything to do with it. I don’t think they were lying.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Surprised?” he echoed disbelievingly. “They were surprised?”

 _He’s worried_ , Hermione realised easily. _Something related to this this is really worrying him_. She pursed her lips. “Harry?”

“Not to say I dislike your flat, but do you think we could walk somewhere?” Harry said glumly. “It feels a bit stifling here. No offence.”

She nodded curtly. “Yes, of course. That’d be fine.” She forced a smile and stood up. “The seafront is quite beautiful. There’s a promenade near it, in the magical quarters.”

“That would be wonderful,” Harry said. He stood up and walked to her front door. “We’ve been there once before, right?”

Hermione smiled. They had, together with Ginny. “Yes, back when I first moved here,” she confirmed.

Putting her overcoat on, she walked towards the front door. Her two friends followed after her, abandoning the still half-full mugs. Before long they were walking down the spiralling staircase that led to her flat and through the building’s front door, into the buzzing streets beyond.

Closing her eyes, Hermione breathed in, enjoying the damp, salty scent of the sea despite the cold. Allowing herself to relax as much as she ever could in a public setting, she fell into step with her two friends as she directed them through the crowded magical street in the direction of the seafront. The air grew harsher as they cut through rows of white wooden houses, tangling her hair. By the time they had reached the promenade at the beach’s side the crowds had almost completely dispersed, giving them an unimpeded view of the sea beyond. The sight made Hermione’s eyes water. Her mother had been born in Whitstable. She had never returned after leaving to study at university, though she had always missed the picturesque seaside town.

She could barely remember it at all, now.

Hermione shared an uneasy look with Ron as they sat at a bench. “What is worrying you, Harry?”

Her friend’s eyes darted around them. Silently, he drew his wand and cast a Muffliato charm. “Rabastan Lestrange…” he muttered. He pulled up his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. He looked exhausted, as if spread thin. “This is larger than just Dolohov and Lestrange, Hermione. It’s more than just Pigwidgeon. Something’s wrong. I don’t know what exactly, but it is.”

“What are you talking about?”

Harry looked up at the sea. “Remember Pyrites, Hermione?” he asked. “It was death eaters that did it, we have enough witness reports to prove that, but there are two pressing questions higher ups have been doing their best to ignore.”

Hermione bit her lip. Instinctively, she knew what he was talking about. All of her doubts had likely centred on the same things. “How they found Pyrites and how they managed to access the ministry,” she listed. “In the case of Pigwidgeon, how it is that they captured him.”

“Exactly,” Harry confirmed. “We have known something is amiss since Pyrites went missing. He was under protection in a secure location. I haven’t been able to confirm that the use of the fidelius charm, but security was heavy. In the case of the Ministry, it’s worse.”

“And not just anyone can breach the ministry. We know that better than anyone,” Hermione added. “Security was increased after Voldemort’s fall.”

Ron leant forwards. “Someone from the inside had to give them access. Either that, or a technical readout of the protections the ministry uses.” His voice lowered further, until it was barely a whisper. “We know Rookwood is out, as is Dolohov. If those two are collaborating with each other—as Rabastan’s presence in that meeting yesterday suggests—they could have easily pulled it off.”

Harry nodded. “Regardless, higher ups now are arguing in favour of telling the Daily Prophet that the whole thing is under control. They want to stick their head in the sand,” he vented. “Thing is, Gringotts has reported that a transfer of all of the funds contained within the Yaxley account took place yesterday. The Avery accounts were accessed around the same point in time, too. It’s all covered under the usual secrecy laws, of course.”

“How can they ignore that?” Ron bellowed, suddenly angry. “It’s obviously related. Now that we know that Lestrange was at the meeting Dolohov organised with Hermione—.”

“They’re not going to investigate it properly,” Harry interrupted grimly. “I don’t know much more, though. I’m not in this specific case.”

Hermione shook her head. It was bad. She had sworn a vow with Dolohov, but that alone didn’t cover whatever it was that his comrades had decided to do. With so many of them still at large, how long did they have until something big happened? It was only a matter of time.

“Are they going to announce something related to it in tonight’s five-year anniversary gala?” she asked.

“I doubt it. It’s more likely they’ll try to sweep it under the rug.” Harry shook his head, frustrated. “Moody would be furious, were he still alive,” he quickly continued. “Wynch and Robards—.”

“Wynch?” Hermione repeated. Unbidden, the image of Nott being choked at Borgin and Burkes flashed through her mind. “Is he in charge of the case?”

“Yes, along with Robards himself. Davies, too. Why?”

“He came to Borgin and Burkes yesterday, together with Cornfoot and Davies. He asked Borgin for information on a suspect,” she explained hesitantly. “They suspect someone within the Department of Mysteries.”

Ron scoffed. “That doesn’t make any sense. Unspeakables don’t have any access to the Ministry’s security.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, trying to contain her anger. “They choked Nott, Harry,” she whispered. “He’s Borgin’s other employee. They attacked him almost immediately. Davies didn’t even hesitate at Wynch’s order.”

Harry and Ron looked horrified. “But he’s innocent,” Harry said. “The Wizengamot declared him free of guilt. He’s not even a suspect in a case. It’s only his father that—.” Paling, he looked away. “I’ve heard rumours, but I’m usually paired with Cornfoot, so I haven’t seen anything directly.”

“Robards… He was head Auror during the war, wasn’t he?” Ron said slowly. “I can remember him well from before I quit the department. I’d wager he wants payback. Voldemort did quite a number on the Auror Office.”

“This can’t stand, Harry,” Hermione said harshly. “I can’t say I liked him back at Hogwarts, you know the group he was with, but violence like that…” She shook her head. It was a clear breach of the law which, if not investigated, would only perpetuate itself. “People like Nott and Malfoy already had it bad enough after the war, what with the reparations that were demanded for their parent’s actions. Malfoy only just barely managed to keep his family’s ancestral home, and Nott not even that.”

Harry fisted a hand through his hair. Turning away from them, he looked at some of the muggle fishing boats only just visible in the sea. “I’ll talk to Kingsley—tonight, if possible, at the anniversary. Hopefully he can finally put Robards in his place.”

She smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “It must be difficult, to have to deal with all of this.”

“I knew what I was getting myself into.” Harry laughed breathlessly. “I must do something about it, even if no one else wants to. Things like these can’t stand.”

Ron swung an arm around their friend’s back. “I can’t say I trust many people at the office, Harry, but if anyone can do it it’s you,” he said. “It’s just a matter of keeping at it.”

Harry’s posture relaxed. “Thank you,” he said, voice easing. “I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”

“We’re together in this, Harry. Always,” Hermione promised. “Dolohov or not, this involves the three of us.”

“I know.” He smiled. “I’ll be seeing the both of you tonight, right?”

“And leave you alone in a Ministry high society event?” Ron asked. “Never.”

*** * ***

The pride in Kingsley’s voice was plain to hear as Hermione entered the massive hall the Ministry had prepared for the celebration of the fifth anniversary of the Second Wizarding War. Around him, the crowd of ministry workers and invitees clapped and cheered intermittently, celebrating the customary welcome to the now-yearly event.

Putting the paper invitation that had served as the portkey to the venue into her bag, close to Dolohov’s notebook, Hermione walked into the hall, taking its decorations in.

It was an undoubtedly beautiful place. Polished, dark wood encompassed the entirety of the floor. The walls, all baroque in style, were tiled with marble and granite. Magical paintings looked down on the room from the intricately decorated vaulted ceiling, their style closer to a French seventeenth century palace than anything she had ever seen in magical Britain before. Gold and silver decorations glistened from the edges of the arched windows at the room’s sides, offering a view of the gardens beyond. Despite the change in name the Ministry had enacted, the shields carved into the walls revealed exactly who it had once belonged to. They were within what had been the Nott’s ancestral manor, gifted to the Ministry as part of the reparations that had been demanded for Thoros Nott’s role in the founding of the Knights of Walpurgis.

By comparison to their surroundings, the crowd filling the hall was considerably less eye-catching. A myriad of ministry uniforms filled the wide, open space, interspersed only by witches and wizards in varying types of formal robes and a few aurors in uniform. A small orchestra stood prepared on one of the edges of the hall, besides tables filled with appetisers.

Cutting through the crowd, Hermione directed herself to the other end of the hall, towards where she knew Harry, Ron, other Order members, and high-ranking ministry employees would be. A number of them were recognisable even from a distance. Kingsley stood at the very centre, together with Tiberius McLaggen and Alfred Blishwick. Near them, wearing his usual work attire, was the now-familiar face of the head of her department, Ricbert Fawley. He was talking with Oeric Abbott, a frown of displeasure twisting his usually gentle disposition. Finally, at an edge of the group, wearing a pink tweed outfit together with a fuzzy cardigan, was the Minister of Magic’s own aide, Dolores Umbridge. The short and squat woman was observing the many witches and wizards filling the room in a way that denoted only satisfaction, a tight smile stretching over her face.

Thunderous applause filled the hall as she reached her destination, prompted by the end of Kingsley’s speech. Tiberius McLaggen stepped back, retreating from view as Ricbert Fawley, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, began to speak.

“Hermione,” Harry said, greeting her. He looked relieved, if for entirely different reasons than that morning. “You’re here.”

Standing right by him, Ginny smiled. “You’re almost late—what happened?”

Hermione took in her two friends silently. Harry looked better composed than he had that morning, thankfully, though there was an edge of nerves that even his tight, formal robes hadn’t managed to hide. Judging by the way she was holding his hand, Ginny had already noticed.

“Research,” Hermione answered. “I lost track of time—I wanted to read over my parents’ case again.” She smiled and looked around, looking for their third, missing friend. “Where is Ron? Did he not come in the end?”

“Oh, he’s around,” Ginny said ruefully. “Lavender wanted to see the gardens, so they decided to walk around whilst they still can.” She turned to look at Harry, amusement clear in her eyes. “We should have followed them whilst we still could.”

“If only that were possible,” Harry said unhappily. He sighed. “According to the Prophet this entire thing is being held in my honour. Leaving like that would only harm Kingsley’s position.” He frowned. “I just don’t like this. The second of October isn’t even the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts—isn’t that what we should be celebrating?” he ranted. “Pius Thicknesse’s sentencing is hardly an appropriate date.” He gestured towards Umbridge, whose smile at strained midway through Fawley’s speech. “It’s bad enough to have to see her here.”

Ginny linked her arm around his. “I know, we just need to be here for a few hours.” she said, pressing herself close to his side. She smiled. “I feel sorry for Kingsley, having to deal with Umbridge as much as he does. He wanted her arrested and tried after the war.”

Hermione nodded. She could remember the moment well. Umbridge had been threatened with arrest, but by the time the Auror Office had been given authorisation she had already managed to worm her way into a safe position of authority.

The crowd applauded again as Fawley finished his speech. Smiling, Kingsley turned to face the small orchestra and gestured politely. A moment later music filled the hall, livening the atmosphere. The crowd of high-ranking ministry employees began to disperse, and, before they knew it, Kingsley had begun to approach them.

“It is a pleasure to see you three here,” the familiar wizard said. He looked around them, searching for their missing third friend. “Did Ron not manage to make it?”

“Oh no, Sir,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Lavender—his wife—insisted on seeing the gardens. They left before the opening address started.”

Kingsley laughed. “I would too, were I able to.” His smile soured as he looked at Hermione. “I’m sorry about what happened, Hermione. I tried to stop it, but the position in the Wizengamot Administration Services was the best I could do.”

“If I can ask, Sir,” Hermione said. “Why was I fired? I had the best results in the Department. I was told I would be able to apply for a promotion soon.”

“Call me Kingsley, please,” the older man said. “I’ve been trying to find out since I first heard about this, but whatever happened has been buried by the paperwork. Officially, it was due to a matter of costs.”

“And unofficially?” Harry asked.

Kingsley rubbed his hand over his eyes. “A personal request from a friend and employee of Tiberius McLaggen—Smith’s father.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Alfred only oversaw the process. Dolores Umbridge approved it.”

Hermione felt anger coil inside of her at the confirmation of the woman’s involvement. “Is there any chance of overturning the decision?”

“I’m afraid not. The best solution Ricbert and I could find was the offer you received.”

“But it’s an outrage!” Ginny shouted.

“I am as unhappy as you all are, believe me,” Kingsley said. “It may take some time, but I promise I am looking for a solution. You’re one of the best new employees at the Ministry, Hermione, don’t allow yourself to forget that.”

Hermione’s eyes softened. The words offered a glimmer of hope, even if an immediate solution was impossible. “Thank you,” she said honestly.

Kingsley nodded curtly. He looked at the people around them. “I wish I could stay more with you three, but I will be taking my leave now. There are a number of wizards I must greet,” he said. “Enjoy the celebrations.”

They watched as Kingsley turned and walked towards a group of elegantly dressed wizards. _Wizengamot members_ , Hermione realised. The five-year anniversary was as much of a political affair for Kingsley as much of the rest of the calendar year.

“This was the old Nott manor, wasn’t it?” Harry asked pensively. He was watching Kinsgley’s retreat solemnly, his mind far away. “The rest of it is in bad shape—I was a part of the team that surveyed it when it was handed over. A small battle during the war, apparently. The Ministry didn’t try to repair anything beyond this hall.”

Hermione placed her hand on his shoulder. “I don’t like it either, Harry.”

Her friend shook his head. “It’s unbelievable,” he muttered. “Look at everyone around us. This has nothing to do with what we went through in the war. Kingsley should know that.”

“He does,” Hermione said. “That’s why he insisted on being here.”

Harry sighed. “I know, but Dumbledore—.

“Albus Dumbledore is, sadly, no longer with us Mr Potter.”

Hermione spun around, only to be faced by the familiar face of the tall and stout-looking Senior Court Scribe of the Wizengamot. Though he was wearing a set of expensive, formal robes, they were considerably dourer than those of the rest of the attendees. _He’s still mourning Hannah_ , she realised, observing his attire. Something must have happened to his silver pocket, though, as it was nowhere to be seen.

The man stretched his hand forwards, sensing Harry’s confusion. “I’m Oeric Abbott, Mr Potter,” he said. “I don’t believe we have had the pleasure to meet yet. My work tends to keep me confined within the Wizengamot Administration Services.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed as he took the man’s hand. “It’s a pleasure.” He observed him cautiously. “I’ve heard about your work. I think Kingsley mentioned your selection as the Ministry’s representative for the werewolf packs in Scotland.”

Abbott nodded. “That I was,” he confirmed. “Dolores’ proposed solution dealt with the issue thoroughly. Those attacks couldn’t continue carrying on.”

Hermione bit her lip. No reports on the event had been published yet. Whatever had happened ought to be disturbing if it had been ideated by Umbridge. “If I can ask, Mr Abbott, what happened to the werewolf packs? From what I understand many were forcibly turned by Greyback himself.”

“I’m afraid it’s classified, Miss Granger,” he reported. “Only those that participated directly are to know the full details.”

She shared an uneasy look with Harry, glanced unsubtly towards the gardens. “I’m glad the matter has been resolved,” she said, lying as diplomatically as she could. She followed Harry’s gaze, understanding immediately what he meant to say. “Would it be okay if we left? Our friend, Ron, and his wife left some time ago to visit the gardens. We wanted to find them.”

“Of course, don’t let me keep you,” Abbott said. “They’re as much of a sight to see as they were before the war.”

Nodding politely at the other man, they walked away. Hermione followed Harry and Ginny as they cut through the crowd, directing themselves towards the open glass doors that allowed access to the gardens. Frowning openly, she thought through the man’s words. If no one was to reveal exactly what had been done to deal with the werewolf packs, she would have to discover it on her own.

It didn’t take her long to voice her doubts. “What do you think, Harry?”

It was Ginny that answered. “Anything Umbridge comes up with can’t be good,” she bit. “Is there any chance you can learn something about it, Harry?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t think so. It was Gawain that organised the entire thing, and he’s not likely to say anything to me.” He sighed. “I’ll try, though.”

Ginny smiled. “Let’s try to find Ron,” she said. “As much as I’d like to dance, I’d rather not be too close to Umbridge. Do you think she is still there?”

Harry smiled ruefully. “I don’t doubt that she is,” he said. “Ron can’t be too far away, at any rate.” He looked at Hermione. “Will you be joining us, Hermione?”

She shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. A soft smile grew on her lips. It would probably be best to give them some time alone, if only for now. They wouldn’t be able to escape from the hall easily until late into the evening. “I’d like to clear my head first.”

“Alright,” Ginny said, holding Harry’ hand. “You know where to find us.”

Hermione watched as her two friends walked into the colourful, elaborate gardens. Though they weren’t too elaborate, they were still undeniably beautiful. Symmetrically designed, they seemed to expand around the entirety of the manor. Their lush grass illuminated by the flickering light of its Victorian streetlamps.

The crowd lessened as she advanced away from the glass doors, thinning until there were only a few sparse groups. Pressing on silently, Hermione observed the manor’s figure begin to g

Hermione pressed on silently, until she saw the short, squat figure of the Minister of Magic’s aide close to that of Fausta Thicknesse’s own. They were arguing, though only Umbridge seemed to be shouting at all. Close to them, a single, lone wizard just out of view, standing in the shadows cast by the Victorian streetlamps, watched the scene impassively.

“Your campaign’s a disgrace, Fausta,” Umbridge spat venomously. “Have no doubt that I will ensure that the Ministry prevails. Your blatant attempts at propaganda won’t succeed.”

Fausta raised her hand gently. “You would do well to consider what I have to say, Dolores” she said with a low voice. “You worked at the Ministry with my husband. You know he would have never collaborated with the Dark Lord willingly.”

Umbridge smiled tightly. “I will not repeat myself again.”

The other witch’s posture visibly tensed, though she didn’t reply. Satisfied at the other witch’s silence, Umbridge began to walk away, only to stop at the sight of Hermione. “Ah, Miss Granger, what a surprise,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I trust you are finding your new position within the Ministry much more appropriate? I hope it has, after the mess you left behind in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

Hermione felt a cold, venomous anger settle in her stomach, and she forced herself to ignore it. No matter how much she wanted to, she wouldn’t gain anything by verbally attacking the other woman. Even if she deserved it. “It’s been perfect so far,” she lied. She straightened her posture, raising her height. “Mr Fawley was very pleased with my previous results. Especially my Amendment to the House-Elf Charter of Rights. He foresees a bright future for me within his department.”

“I have no doubt that he does,” the short woman sneered. “It doesn’t do to trust words like that though, I’m afraid. Capable as Ricbert is, the situation in the Ministry is ever changing.” Her smile widened as her eyes fixed on the area of her forearm where the slur Bellatrix had once carved was hidden beneath her robes. “Did you know, Miss Granger, a new draft law on centaur herd rights will be passing through the Wizengamot soon. Quite the improvement, I will say.”

This time, Hermione wasn’t able to stop herself from speaking. “Your law won’t pass,” she warned. “The Wizengamot won’t allow it.”

“Oh, you’ll find that it will,” she said sweetly. She looked at her disparagingly. “I trust I will be seeing you very soon.”

Hermione felt her nails dig into her palm. _How dare she,_ she thought angrily, following Umbridge’s retreating figure. _To think that that toad of a woman—._

“Dolores Umbridge is unpleasant even at the best of times. Don’t take her words to heart, Miss Granger.”

Hermione looked up, surprised, and met Fausta Thicknesse’s eyes. “I’m sorry?”

The other witch didn’t reply. “People have spoken well of you, Miss Granger,” she said, looking her over. “You achieved outstanding N.E.W.T. results, from what I understand?”

She flushed at the unexpected compliment. “I did—seven.”

“A word of advice, then, Miss Granger. The Ministry of Magic is full of liars. Be careful where you tread,” the witch said. “My husband worked for years at the Ministry. Loyal and earnest service, and look what that got him.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

The older witch sniffed unhappily. “Liars, Miss Granger. To the last one.” Turning around abruptly, she looked at the wizard that had been standing silently behind her, out of Hermione’s view. “Mr Malfoy. I believe you said your mother wished to speak with me?”

Her old classmate approached her swiftly. He looked much of the same as he had on her first day at the Ministry’s archives, blond hair slicked back in much of the same way as it had been during their early years at Hogwarts. “Of course,” Draco said with ease. Reaching into his robe’s pocket, he pulled out his own invitation to the five-year anniversary event and offered his hand. “If you’d accompany me, Lady Thicknesse.”

Before Hermione knew it the two had disappeared, leaving her alone in the gardens. Unsure of what to do, she gazed up at the old Nott manor and resumed her way beneath the flickering light of the lampposts. It’s beautiful and worn exterior, an odd reminder of everything she had gone through during the war, looming ever closer.

Her eyes skimmed the growing crowds, searching for her friends. They were bound to have found Ron already. It was unlikely he and Lavender had gone too far.

The closer she got to the open glass doors, the clearer it was that something strange was taking place. The friendly atmosphere that had filled the hall at the celebrations opening had all but vanished. Tense, nervous chatter filled the air around her as witches and wizards observed Ricbert Fawley and Tiberius McLaggen, who seemed to be arguing.

“The accusation merits investigation, Tiberius,” Fawley said, incensed. His hand trembled as he pushed up his glasses. “Sirius Black’s case was bad enough of a disaster as it was.”

Tiberius McLaggen spoke in a soft, polite tone. “Ricbert, surely you see this for the folly it is.” He shook his head, as if reprimanding him. “The trial and the evidence were clear. Fausta may be a dear friend, but she’s a grieving widow.”

“That she may be, but it doesn’t change the fact of the matter,” Fawley said confidently. “Justice and truth demand it. Justice—pure and undiluted. We must open an investigation immediately.”

“The Wizengamot spoke. Justice was served.”

Fawley refused to back down. “The investigation had faults—the files reveal that.” He paused and gestured at the people around them. “From good to evil is one quaver, so says the proverb. And, correspondingly, from evil to good. If our ministry doesn’t investigate its own corruption, we will continue down the same tragic line that brought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to power,” he argued. “I committed the error of not listening to Albus Dumbledore once. The least I can do now is to follow the advice he once gave me.”

A group of uniformed aurors began to approach the two men, cutting through the crowd. The two leading the group—Gawain Robards and Mervyn Wynch—were immediately recognisable. “Lord McLaggen, Sir,” Robards said politely. “I am sorry to interrupt you, but we have a warrant for the arrest of Mr Fawley.”

Tiberius looked at the four men emotionlessly. Around him, the crowd became silent. “Is that so?” he asked. “What are the charges?”

“Collaboration with the murder of Festus Pyrites and participation in subversive, anti-Ministry activities,” Robards reported. “All revealed under evidence provided by a recently arrested unspeakable.”

Fawley narrowed his eyes. “This doesn’t follow the established procedure. As Chief Warlock, I should have been informed of any impeding investigation concerning my person.”

“It is a matter of security, Chief Warlock. The information we received was clear,” Robards said apathetically. He drew his wand. “Will you accompany us?”

Hermione’s jaw tightened at his words. The head of her department was right. Information or not, the arrest was irregular. _This is all for show_ , she slowly realised. _Charges or not, they are doing this to make a point?_

Belatedly, she noticed Kingsley rushing through the crowd. “Robards, what is the meaning of this?” he protested.

“Merely the results of our investigation, Minister Shacklebolt.”

Kingsley’s expression twisted into a scowl. “That’s—.”

“Regrettable, yet undeniable, Minister,” Robards interrupted. He gestured at Wynch, who stepped forwards, his own wand raised. “Will you surrender your wand and accompany us, Chief Warlock?”

Sighing, Fawley gave a brief, curt nod. “I will,” he said. He handed Wynch his wand and looked at Kingsley. “I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding, Kingsley. I’d rather not make this worse than it is.”

Robards bowed in acknowledgement. Turning around, he gestured towards another of the four aurors. Hermione watched on as the third man grabbed Fawley by the shoulders and violently twisted his arm backwards, pulling him into a hold.

Impassive, as if nothing had happened, Robards turned to face the other aurors. “Let’s go.”

A loud _crack_ rang across the hall as the five men disapparated. Hermione stared disbelievingly at the empty space before her as chatter, frenetic and fervid, resumed around her. Feeling hazy, she opened her beaded bag, intending to pull her invitation to the event out, only to pale as her hand brushed against the surface of Dolohov’s notebook.

 _It’s warm_ , she thought frantically. _He must have sent a message_.

She only just barely managed to register Kingsley’s worried expression. “Hermione?” the older wizard asked, approaching her.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to leave,” she sputtered. “Could you tell Harry if you see him?”

Not waiting for a reply, Hermione pulled out and activated her portkey. Dizzying nausea enveloped her as it pulled her through the hall’s wards and back to her flat. Stepping shakily through her living room as soon as she landed, she directed herself to her table. Dropping the portkey, she pulled the notebook out of her beaded bag and opened it with a single, fluid motion. Flipping through its pages, she searched for the text that was sure to have appeared.

Her heart skipped a beat as she finally found unfamiliar, italicised handwriting near its back. Tomorrow. Dolohov wanted to meet with her tomorrow.

Picking up a quill, Hermione wrote a reply beneath the death eater’s neat script.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you to all of the people who left kudos, bookmarked, and commented on this story. It is really flattering to see that even after all the time that went by between updates interest was very high, and even more so when it was considered worth the wait. I can't thank you all enough for that, it makes writing this story a pleasure.
> 
> This chapter is far more intrigue-focused than the previous one, but I hope it was still enjoyable to read. Some more exposition on what happened after the war at last, along with a number of hints on a few things I've got planned. After a number of mentions and hints, Umbridge has also (finally) made an appearance. Will she appear again/is there more going on in the background? Absolutely. I'm afraid she'll linger around as a character for some time.
> 
> I think I've commented on this before, but part of the goal that motivated me to start this story was to make everything, from the setting to the characters, as realistic as possible without resorting to character bashing. This especially goes for the death eaters, which I personally think are criminally underdeveloped in canon. I've always liked the idea of a more 'realistic' political Harry Potter post-war story, so I hope I'm managing to achieve that, even if up to a degree.


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